A Wolf and Her Lion
by dancewithdragons
Summary: Reuploaded. Lyla Stark was the second born of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, the Daughter of Winter, a lady by all rights who was raised in the North, but she felt more at home in the arms of Jaime Lannister than she ever did in Winterfell. (Jaime/OC. Rated M)
1. Chapter 1

**AN** : This is the original, unedited version of A Wolf and Her Lion. I am only uploading for the people who have private messaged me asking for it to come back. It is not a story that I am proud of in terms of plot, character development, or consistency, but it was my most popular piece, and it seems many people miss it. So here it is.

 **Chapter 1**

The sun was pouring over the hills like water and a warm summer breeze whispered through the Wolfswood. Birds sang their pretty songs and there wasn't a noise to be heard otherwise- except for that of Lyanna Stark's horse. They blew through the woods as fast as wind, without a thought on where they were headed. It must have been an hour after sunrise when they finally slowed and she reached down, patting her horse's neck and panting a breathless, "whoa."

She took in the beauty of the woods, the scent of pine and summer snow. It was serene, calming, and it only reaffirmed her of her wolf blood. Her father had told her only a Stark could love the North, for a wolf would always be at home in the . They were known for their strength and loyalty and honor. And their tempers and cold shoulders and wildness, she reminded herself. But that did not phase her pride in her House. While she had not the ladylike charms that her mother, Lady Catelyn, and sister, Sansa, possessed, she had winter in her blood, and were a wolf at heart. Lyla smiled to herself, rearing Morrow around and galloping back home.

It was not long before she arrived back at the gates of Winterfell. She trotted through the courtyard, inhaling the scent of the stables as she passed them and halting when she saw the boys practicing in the yard.

"And which one of you was a marksman at seven?" her father, Lord Eddard Stark, questioned when Bran missed his mark and the other boys laughed. His eyes landed on hers then and he frowned. Her twilight rides had always distressed the dear Lord of Winterfell. "Another morning ride, Lyla?"

"I simply couldn't waste such a beautiful morn, father," Lyla replied from her seat on Morrow. She patted his neck before swinging from the saddle, handing his reins to the stable boy that stood nearest to her.

"Go on Bran," Robb urged as she drew closer towards them. "Try again."

Bran sighed but did as told, pulling back an arrow and locking his eyes on the target.

Jon observed the young boy's stance and folded his arms. "Relax your bow arm," he commented, eyes narrowed.

Again, Bran obliged, closing his eyes. Just as he was about to release the arrow, Lyla switched her gaze to where her youngest sister silently stood underneath the balcony. It overlooked the yard, made of thick grey wood. She winked her way, and Arya grinned in return before loosing her arrow, smile growing when the mark was hit.

The boys roared in laughter once Bran realized what happened. Above, where their parents looked down on them, chuckles echoed off the stone of Winterfell's walls.

"She's just as wild as you ever were," Robb jested, earning him a glare.

"Pray she doesn't set the sept on fire as you did, Stark," Theon added.

Lyla frowned. "If I hadn't been forced to light mother's candle, it wouldn't have caught the drapes aflame."

The boys shared another quick chortle, but it was halted as soon as they sighted Rodrik Cassel crossing the yard, his white whiskers bouncing as he walked. In his hand was a letter, a report. Dark nerves set in Lyla's belly as the old man, their Master-at-Arms, climbed the stairwell of the balcony to hand Lord Stark the note.

"Robb." Lord Eddard's voice rang clear. He descended the steps and neared them. Lyla could immediately tell something was wrong. His hard, stone gray eyes were as solemn as ever. "There is a deserter. Bring Bran, it's his time."

Lyla's eyes brightened and she grabbed her father's arm as he passed. "Might I come, father," she asked. She'd never seen a man put to the sword, but she felt she was old enough now; fifteen and ready to make what she would of the world.

Lord Stark shook his head. "You are a lady, Lyla," he replied quietly. "I will not tarnish your outlook on the world so young."

A swell of jealousy coursed through her veins and she furrowed her brows. "Father," she reasoned, "Bran's only seven, less than half my age, and yet he may go and not I?"

"Lyla, women's eyes are meant for beautiful things, like needlework or babes, not blood." her father replied, not unkindly but perhaps exasperatedly. He looked to Robb, who nodded compliantly and took his leave with Theon and Jon in tow.

"Father, I have seen more than my fair share of blood." He looked as set in his decision as ever, and she frowned, grasp sliding from his arm to his hand in an attempt to warm him to the idea. "Don't you remember that I was the one who found that dead bear by the Wolfswood? There was enough blood there for at least five men."

Lord Eddard gave her a pained look, and she knew he was thinking of her aunt, his sister, Lyanna Stark, who was her namesake. It was not uncommon that she would be compared to the late wolf girl, who was barely older than Lyla herself. She hadn't been the only one to notice that because of her likeness to her aunt she was allowed more than her brothers or sisters. "You will not tell your mother," he told her sternly, giving in as he always did.

Lyla threw her arms around her father's neck and kissed his cheek. "You are so good to me, father," she murmured gratefully, waving for the stable boy to return her stallion to her. The beast whinnied as she mounted him, the laces of her riding boots catching slightly on his flowing mane.

"He's actually letting you come?" Theon raised his brow watching as Lyla worked to free her poor mount's mane from the laces. After a moment he leaned down and helped, and she thanked him with a kind smile.

"He is," she replied, settling into the saddle and gripping the reins, lacing her fingers through Morrow's midnight black mane.

Lord Stark reared his steady bay around, checking to see if all was prepared, and nodded when he was content. "Let's on," he announced, kicking into his steed. Everyone followed, as though they were extensions of him, and none said a word on Lyla's presence.

They rode off to the basehill. Robb was just behind their father, and Lyla was not far behind him. Theon galloped easily at her side, and Jon was tailing them with Bran at his flank, trying to stay amount on his pony. The guards surrounded them, and Ser Rodrik was beside Lord Stark.

It did not take but for a moment to reach the prisoner, the deserter, who wore worn black furs and seemed to see right through whoever spoke to him. Lyla caught his eye only once and shuddered, glancing away. His stare entered her and touched her soul like a brand iron.

"Don't look away," Lyla heard Jon whisper to Bran as their father called for the family sword, Ice. "Father will know if you do."

The man looked young, lanky and thin with a tall willowy stature. Lyla frowned as he went on about the white walkers, saying how he'd seen them with his own eyes. A lie, she thought to herself. White walkers were just a children's tale.

Eddard looked grim as he whispered the titles of their king. When he proclaimed the sentence of death, Lyla instinctively reached her hand out to Bran's and squeezed it. "Be strong, little wolf," she whispered to him, her eyes reaching the deserter's just in time to see the lights leave them as Ice sliced through his neck. It only took her father one blow to get the job done, and she couldn't help but stare in wonderment as the blood danced about his corpse.

"You did well," Jon encouraged solemnly. Jon was her bastard brother by title, but as true a brother to her as Robb, Bran, or Rickon. He looked more like their father than any of her 'true' brothers; his hair was thick and so dark it was nearly black, his face long and serious, and his eyes were the same silver gray as their father. Arya could have been his full blooded sister, for how similar they were, and I were of a likeness to them as well, but for my Tully blue eyes and smaller, more refined, features.

Bran said nothing of Jon's comment, only swallowed and followed Robb as he rode off with their father. Theon kicked the head as it rolled to his feet and Jon shot a heated glance his way. "Ass," he grunted, riding away with Lyla at his side.

After a while's ride, they curved the riverbank and stopped. Nearly ten feet away from them lay a wolf, and not just any wolf, a direwolf. It was white as snow where gray didn't dapple it, yellow eyes wide open and blank. "Gods!" Theon breathed, dismounting and staring at it in awe. "What in the seven hells is it?"

"A wolf," said Robb.

"A freak," Theon retorted. "Look at the size of it!"

Lyla's eyes never left the carcass as she dismounted Morrow, crossing to it and burying her hands in its fur- much to Jory Cassel's disposition. "It's a direwolf, not a freak," she murmured, more to herself than as a reply.

"Lyla, get away from that!" Eddard commanded, dismounting only seconds after everyone else.

She did not listen, only took in the sight of the beast before her. Its body was half buried in the snow, ice forming on its fur and maggots crawling from its eyes and mouth, the wound infested the worst, and yet Lyla only saw the beauty of its long, sturdy legs and thin, lithe body. The way it's snout was slightly longer than a regular wolf and how large it was. It was grander than Bran's pony.

Nor did she miss the pups that were suckling from its teats.

"There's not been a direwolf sighted south of the Wall in two hundred years," marveled her father's ward, who eyed the little pups with suspicion.

Jon raised his brows at the boy who was his elder physically but his lesser mentally. "I see one now," he told the ironborn, voice hard.

Robb gingerly picked up one of the pups, holding it at arm's length from the scruff. The tiny thing was yipping and pawing at the air, silver furred with milky yellow eyes. Little Bran eyed the pup yearningly, and Lyla placed a warm, gloved hand on his shoulder.

"Go on, you can touch him," she whispered encouragingly to the young lordling.

Jon pushed another pup, smaller, a pale peppered brown, into their young brother's arms as Robb held his closer. "Here you go," he said softly, looking up to their father. "There are six of them."

"Direwolves loose in the realm, after so many years," Hullen muttered, "I like it not."

Jory was clutching the pommel of his sword with white knuckles but shook his head at Hullen. "It's a sign," he insisted.

Father seemed unconvinced. "This is only a dead animal, Jory." He had troubled eyes and moved around the shewolf's body slowly, snow crunching freshly under his feet. "Do we know what killed her?"

"There's something in the throat." Robb informed him, "There, just under the jaw."

They went on endlessly about the tales they'd heard, of how pups had eaten their way from their mother in histories past, but Lyla heard none of it, watching in wonder as a fuzzy light brown shewolf crawled onto her skirts, suckling at her fingertip and looking up at her with big brown eyes. It was so helpless, so sweet.

"No matter, they'll be dead soon enough," Hullen said decidedly.

Theon nodded, drawing his sword. "The sooner the better." He looked over to Bran who was still nursing his pup close and thrust out his arm. "Give it here, Bran."

"No! This one's mine." Bran was fierce, blue eyes vivid and furious. He was as strong as a northman, though he held the auburn curls and delicate features of House Tully, where their mother had been borne of.

Robb's voice boomed and for a moment Lyla thought he was their father. "Put away your sword, Theon. We will keep these pups."

Hullen's son, Harwin, raised a brow. "You cannot do that, boy."

"It be a mercy to kill them," Hullen agreed.

"No!" Bran cried, and Lyla could see the tears welting up in his eyes. He looked to his sister pleadingly, his grip on the direwolf Jon had given him desperate.

"Ser Rodrik's red bitch whelped again last week," Lyla spat out, hurriedly, trying to mend the situation, "it was a small litter, only two live pups. She'll have milk enough, though."

Her father did not waver. "She'll rip them apart when they try to nurse," he replied gravely.

"Lord Stark," Jon interrupted. All turned to him and Lyla could see Bran pursing his lips out of the corner of her eye, his eyes begging more than words could convey. "There are six pups. Three male and three female."

"What of it Jon?"

"You have six true born children," said Jon. "Three sons and three daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord."

Lyla hated that he didn't count himself as one of her siblings- he may not have been a 'trueborn' but he was still a son by her father, her true half-brother. "You want no pup for yourself, Jon?" she asked, though knew he was too humble to think that he was a real Stark.

Jon only shrugged, looking away. She could have sworn there was a glint of sadness in his silver eyes. "The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark. I am no Stark."

Eddard regarded Jon thoughtfully, solemnly, and she interjected before he could change his mind. "We will nurse them ourselves," she suggested hopefully, running her hand gently down the back of the summer-brown wolf she held. "We can soak towels with warm milk and give them suck from that."

"I promise," Bran added quickly, holding his little pup even closer.

"Easy to say, harder to do," sighed Lord Stark, eyeing his children carefully, weighing his decisions. "I will not have you wasting the servant's time with this. If you want these pups, you will feed them yourselves. Is that understood?"

Bran, Robb and Lyla all nodded in understanding. "You must train them yourselves as well," their father said. "You must train them. The kennelmaster will have nothing to do with these monsters, I promise you that. And gods help if you neglect them, or brutalize them, or train them badly. These are not dogs to beg for treats or slink off at a kick. A direwolf will rip a man's arm off his shoulder as easily as a dog will kill a rat. Are you sure you want this?"

"Yes, father," Bran answered, smiling down at his pup.

Lord Stark's eyes switched to his eldest son and daughter, who both replied with a firm, "yes."

"The pups may die anyway, despite all you do," Lord Stark reminded them soberly.

Lyla held the warm brown wolf closer to her, cradling it. "They won't die," she all but hissed in defense, "I won't let them die."

Their father's eyes flashed with momentary amusement at his eldest child's outburst. "Keep them then. Jory, Desmond, gather up the other pups. It's time we were back to Winterfell."

Bran wrapped his arms around their father's legs and followed him as he went, and Lyla and Jon helped Jory and Desmond gather the other three pups. Even Theon helped, regardless of his readiness to end the pup's lives. He carried the last pup, the largest of them all, that was too much for either Jory or Desmond to hold.

We mounted with the help of some of the guards, who held the pups until we were saddled, and then returned them. It was not uncomfortable having the little dirt brown wolf in my lap as we prepared to depart for Winterfell

Before they could ride out, there was a soft, whisper of whining that altered both Lyla and Jon. She turned to where the dead wolf rested, wondering, for a moment, if it were not truly dead. Jon spurred his mount towards the massive body, as if reading her mind, but it was not the giant beast that lived.

Lyla gasped alongside the others as her half-brother pulled a tiny, malnourished, white wolf pup from the frosty summer snow. Its eyes were a bright, glistening red, like that of two bloodstones. "He must have crawled away from the others," Jon reasoned as he cradled the tiny thing.

"Or maybe driven away," their lord father remarked darkly.

"An albino," Theon noted. "That one will die even faster than the others."

Lyla glanced his way, her eyes cold as she showed her anger at his snide remark freely. He looked downcast and pursed his lips. Jon stared at him with a similar, albeit icier, look in his eyes. When he spoke, it was like a sharp ring of a bell. "This one belongs to me."

"You did well, watching that deserter. Better than Robb had done his first time out." Theon brought it up nonchalantly, riding up beside Lyla.

She looked to him and allowed a small smile to grace her lips, forgiving his remark about Jon's little wolf. "I remember you told me that he flinched. Father didn't like that, I'm sure."

Theon laughed. He always laughed, when he weren't crude, and it oddly soothed the young Stark girl. She could be as cross as the seven hells, yet still find comfort in his laugh. "Your lord father was bothered, but not angry. He could never be angry with any of you."

Lyla playfully pushed at his shoulder with her free hand as they pulled up to the Winterfell gates. "He's never been angry with you either, Greyjoy. Don't seek my pity."

He smiled at her shove and after he'd dismounted his stallion he released an exaggerated gasp. "You wound me, my lady! It is below me to seek pity."

"Wound you? What a hurtful assumption," she teased lightly. "I'm a lady, Theon Greyjoy, I couldn't dare harm a fly." She handed her pup to Jory and slid from the saddle, then plucked it from his hands and kissed its nose for good measure.

Robb was beside her then, holding his little grey pup. "Of course," he agreed, "my darling sister is descended from the gods."

Lyla smiled at her brother, only her younger by a year. They were so alike in temperament, but carried many differences physically. While she and Robb shared the river blue eyes and slender, delicate face of Tully, her dark brown curls were of the wild North, her height and slimness also northern. Robb, on the other hand, was all Tully, from the ringlets of auburn atop his head to the bulky strength that made him.

Robb dusted pines from her shoulder and grinned. "Best not tell Sansa that you were with us when we witnessed the execution," he suggested, and she nodded. Arya she could trust with a secret, but it would be a lie to say the same of Sansa. She loved her younger sister, who looked as delicate and red as a rose, but her lady-like nature betrayed her loyalty to her siblings, which was something Lyla would not chance. Her mother would be cross, surely. She decided not to tell Arya, either, lest Arya knowing something Sansa did not spark jealousy in the latter and cause a fight, between they who already fought endlessly.

She opened her mouth to reply, but the distant, shrill, call of their names caught her attention. She turned and smiled in greeting to little Arya, whose wild brown hair was ratted in matts around her face. Sansa met them after, having paced herself slower than Arya to keep her gown fine. She inclined her head, auburn curls falling over her shoulder as she did so. Her eyes, the same shining blue as Lyla and Robb's, grew wide with curiosity.

"Wolves?" questioned the second Stark daughter, who tentatively took the dainty silver-white pup that Jory placed in her arms. She wrinkled her nose at their smell, which was of their rotted mother, and sighed angrily at the dirt that speckled her arms.

"Direwolves," Lyla corrected, a grin tugging at her mouth as Arya eagerly reached for the wolf that Desmond held.

Rickon was tickled to see the pups and quickly proclaimed that the black one in Theon's arms was his. "Pup pup," he called it cheerfully. It was what he called all dogs.

We brought the pups to the kitchens and crowded around them so they could not escape and terrorize the castle. Lyla had not taken her eyes from the sweet little brown wolf that had so deliberately crawled onto her lap in the woods. She was playful and lively and panted as she chased her littermates.

Sansa's wolf, the finest of them all, was watching its brothers and sisters carefully, picking the safest times to jump in and play, then retreating when it became too rough. Arya's wolf, much a match to her own personality, growled playfully at everyone and everything. Rickon's wolf was terrifying, even as a pup, and bared its teeth often.

Bran's wolf was as gentle as Lyla's, and Robb's was thoughtful. Jon's stared at its littermates quietly, not making a sound as it sat at his side, where he stood in the corner.

They were named as quickly as they'd been set down to play. Robb called his steel wolf Grey Wind, for his color and because he was faster than his siblings. Sansa's was Lady, Arya's was Nymeria, Rickon's was Shaggydog and Jon feigned to call his pet Ghost.

It were only Bran and Lyla who had yet to call their wolves anything.

"Lyla, what if I never think of a name for him," Bran murmured quietly, watching as his pup spun around hers.

"You'll think of something Bran," she assured him, squeezing his hand. Her eyes moved to her own little wolf, as nameless as Bran's, and smiled. "We'll both think of something."

"The king? He's coming here, to Winterfell?" Lyla's eyes narrowed suspiciously as she locked eyes with her father, nerves making her fingertips numb.

Her lord father looked onward, no longer meeting her eye, and nodded. Her mother pursed her lips, fine red hair glinting like flames in the firelight. "He's coming to ask your lord father to be Hand in place of Jon Arryn."

"What's happened to Lord Arryn?" Robb asked, pacing the room once more before sitting beside Lyla in a thickly cushioned chair that matched the one she inhabited, curled around herself with her green riding gown fanned out beneath her.

"He's dead, Robb. Why else would he be replaced?" Lyla replied dryly, looking downcast after she met her mother's ice hard eyes.

Eddard sighed and slumped further into his chair across the table, less padded, more wooden. "I've not accepted to anything yet, do not fret."

"I heard he's bringing half the capitol," said Sansa under her breath, looking into the fire that roiled across the room. Her eyes were filled with gleaming excitement, but the rest of us only felt dread.

Lady Catelyn raised her brow. "Where did you hear that, Sansa?"

"Jeyne Poole, no doubt." Lyla murmured to herself. She was no fan of idle gossip, and this was no subject to be taken lightly.

"Lyla," her mother reprimanded sternly, her voice wavering. She was as terrified as we all were that the king would whisk away our father to the capitol.

"Perhaps Sansa should be sent to King's Landing with father, so she might know of our worry," she remarked in her cold way. Her anger about the possibility of losing her father overrode the love and tolerance she held for feather-headed Sansa.

"Lyla."

She snapped her eyes up to her mother's still icy glare. There was no way to come out of an argument with the Lady of Winterfell as a victor, so Lyla turned towards her sister, who sat on the other side of the room beside Arya, both of their direwolves warming their laps. My words were sword on stone. "I'm so very sorry, Sansa, that you have let your childish dreams of the south cloud the fact that father might well never return from the capitol."

"Enough Lyla." It was her father who spoke then, and she shrunk under his harsh voice, as cold as the winter winds. "We are a family, we must not be at each other's throats, especially now."

Lyla frowned and looked again to her younger sister, who all but tried to miss the point being conveyed. "Might I truly go to King's Landing?" she asked of their lady mother. It made Lyla sick to hear how giddy her sister was. Perhaps it was because Sansa was all their mother's creature, while Lyla preferred her father's company, that the little auburn haired girl was so excited to hear of the King's arrival. The eldest Stark daughter was not so convinced, and being near such happiness when she felt so very gray made her light headed.

"Father, I am tired. May I go to bed?" Her words were nearly a whisper.

Lord Stark waved his consent, and it was not but a moment before she had pushed her way through the door and departed the solar. A whoosh of cold air chilled her, and she sighed gratefully, for the rush of icy northern wind immediately soothed the anger that burned within her.

Robb followed her out, two little direwolves padding after him, and they found Jon standing out in the yard, whacking a sword to a dummy. The only give away to their silent approach was that of their yowling wolves, of which Lyla bent down and lifted her, petting it to keep herself busy lest she take Jon's sword and swing it herself.

"Jon," Lyla greeted coolly. He looked over his shoulder and smiled, staying his blade and closing the distance between them. When he caught sight of their disgruntled faces, glowing in the dim torchlight, he frowned.

"Lyla, Robb," he greeted them anxiously, looking at his siblings through his nearly black curls. Ghost stared at them with dark ruby eyes, respectful but curious. Awfully humane, for a direwolf, Lyla thought. He sat silently, though his siblings ran over to him, licking his cheeks and yapping delightedly.

"The king is riding to Winterfell to take our lord father as Hand," Robb confessed, for though she opened her mouth to speak, Lyla could not find the words.

It certainly didn't go over her head that he said take. Her tongue felt heavy. She honestly, and probably truthfully, assumed that King Robert Baratheon would never take no as an answer.

Jon looked down, sighing, and hmph'ed. "I see."

"None of us is pleased," Robb sympathized.

But for Sansa, Lyla thought bitterly, holding her wolf closer. She sighed. "I feel I will be of no jolly company tonight," she told her brothers quietly. "I'm going to bed, goodnight." They didn't stop her as she made to leave and she lay in bed that night with her direwolf beside her, curled up and snoring softly. "Goodnight, you," she said with a sob caught in her throat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Has it been a month already, she thought melancholically as she lay unmoving atop her featherbed. As she had predicted, Lyla hadn't been able to sleep. Ultimately she had accumulated less than an hour's worth before giving up and dressing. The king would be arriving at midday, and the dread of it was what deprived her of dreaming. Her direwolf had been equally as restless, but sat vigil at her side while she took residence at her vanity ran a brush through her unruly curls.

Her chamber door screeched as it was pushed open. "Not out riding, yet?"

She turned and smiled sadly, seeing her father standing at her doorway. He looked as solemn as ever, grey eyes unyielding. She must have looked much the same. "With the king arriving mother forbade it, though I rather disagree. I shouldn't be forced to change my ways simply because a fat man with a crown has come to our home uninvited."

Her father frowned. "Robert is our king and sovereign and a dear friend, Lyla, do not speak ill of him."

Lyla grimaced and set her brush down. "I don't understand how you can be so happy about the king's snatching you from your bed," she said incredulously, resting her head in her hand, arm propped on her elbow. "What good will this bring us? They have decided to drag the most honorable man in Westeros to his death. Hands never live long, father."

Lord Stark looked grim now, as if there were things in the making that she did not understand, and she wanted to ask about what it could be that she was missing, but he turned his gaze to her little wolf, who was resting at her feet. "Have you named her yet?" asked her father,

To be honest, in the month she'd had the pup, she'd not given a single thought on its name. She simply called it you or girl. "No," she replied. "It'll come in time, though." She noticed a scrap of paper in Lord Eddard's hand and raised a brow. "News from the king?"

He looked down at the paper and then shook his head, brown hair dancing about him. "Yes, he will be here soon. His procession was spotted an hour ago. You will be kind to them, Lyla?"

"Of course, father." She frowned, watching him as he turned and left. Regardless of personal standing, Lyla would not go against her father's wishes. "Come on you," she murmured to the little brown wolf, tying a cloth-of-silver cape around her shoulders and making her way down to the main hall.

Sansa and Arya were already there, along with Bran and Jon. "Where are Robb and Rickon?" Lyla asked as she neared them, taking a seat by Bran and mussing up his hair.

"Rickon is with mother and Robb and Theon are training," Arya told her, gulping down some milk.

Septa Mordane, who Lyla hadn't seen sitting by Sansa until she spoke, glowered. "Arya, you're a lady of Winterfell. Must you gobble your milk and your food like such a beast?"

Sansa nodded in agreement to Septa and Arya rolled her eyes.

"Septa, why don't you go dress. I'll see to the girls." Lyla turned to see her mother. She looked lovely in a gown of river blue, one of her finest. Rickon was perched on her hip, tugging at her soft reddish curls.

"Yes, my lady," the septa said, excusing herself and leaving the hall to change.

"Good morn, mother," Lyla greeted, offering a warm, welcoming smile.

Lady Catelyn returned the smile with one of her own, and sat to Lyla's left, Rickon greedily grabbing a glass of milk and burping after the cup was empty. "Rickon," their mother reprimanded, raising her brow at him.

"May I be excused?" he asked, his voice so innocent in contrary to his monstrous, yet sweet, little personality. Their mother nodded her consent and watched him go off with Bran, who also was excused.

"You come and all the Stark children flock like pigeons," Lyla mused, looking to Arya as she ran off to join Jon, who left as soon as Mother was seated. Sansa looked to be about done with her breakfast but stayed, like a proper young lady, until everyone at the table had finished.

Lady Catelyn smiled and gently ran a hand through her daughter's rusty brown curls. "You used to run off like that too. You've always been your father's girl more than mine, but I cannot fault you for that. He always was softest to you."

Lyla leaned against her mother's shoulder. "I'm your girl too, mother, don't fret." After a moment she straightened up grabbed an apple before asking permission to be excused.

"Go on, my little wolf girl," Lady Catelyn said laughingly, affectionately, as she watched her eldest exit the great hall.

The practice yard was bitterly cold, enough so to turn Lyla's nose pink and her cheeks pinker. She didn't mind though, no true northerner did. The smell of the pine that lay beyond the yard made Lyla want to curse her mother's wishes and ride off to the Wolfswood on Morrow regardless, but she leaned against a post and instead watched as Robb and Theon swung steel at each other, mindlessly eating her apple.

"Don't wait for him to make a move, Robb, go for it," she shouted. Her free hand was cupped over her mouth so they could hear her over the sounds of the chandeliers being hoisted to the ceiling in the main hall.

Robb took a swing at Theon and smacked his back right thigh with the flat of his blade, causing him to fall and roll. "Fuck, Stark!" he cursed. "Damn it, Lyla, don't give him advice!"

The two Starks were laughing then, Robb giving Lyla a wink before Theon sliced at him, the blade barely scraping her brother's breastplate before he jumped away.

"Hold your blade arm closer, Theon. It'll give you more control," she called out, Theon drew his arm closer to him, immediately, and successfully, blocking a swing from Robb.

Bran and Rickon ran across the field with wood swords, battling as though it were the Rebellion all over again. Lyla remembered Old Nan telling her the story of how the Rebellion began.

"Robert's Rebellion, they call it." The crone crowed. "A true man, King Robert. An old friend of your father's. They fought together, you know."

Lyla, as impatient as any five year old would be, rolled her eyes. "The story Nan, get to the story!"

"They fought endlessly, battling steel on steel, blood on blood. All for your aunt Lyanna. Poor child, spirited away by Rhaegar Targaryen. Taken from her room, plucked from her bed! The very bed and room that you now occupy. It lasted nearly two years and thousands died- including your uncle and grandfather, at the commands of King Aerys."

"The Mad King." Lyla whispered, blue eyes wide with awe. "Go on, go on!"

Old Nan smiled and nodded. "The Mad King he was called, truly an evil man. Do you remember who it was that slayed him, girl?"

Lyla frowned and recalled what her father had told her, years passed. "T'was the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister," she replied. "Papa says the Lannisters are bad."

She hadn't realized how pitted she was against them, at so young an age, until she remembered that night. Now, at nearly six-and-ten, she thought much the same. She trusted her father's opinion.

"Lyla?"

She snapped her head up and smiled to Jon, who looked mildly concerned. "Sorry, I was lost in thought."

"It would seem so…" He raised a brow but shrugged, leaning on the other side of the post. Bran and Rickon had ran off somewhere with their sticks though Robb and Theon remained.

Theon looked over to them as Robb got to his feet- another blow from Theon, Lyla observed. "How about it, Lyla? Want to hit your brother?" His arm was outstretched, sword hilt facing her.

She seriously thought about it and was about to say yes when her mother, who she didn't realize was standing over the balcony above them, spoke for her. "No, Theon."

"I'm sorry, my lady. I did not see you there." Theon looked at his feet and recoiled his arm.

"If it were any other day, Theon, I'd say yes," Lyla called, smiling at him. He seemed to brighten up at that, her mother releasing a loud sigh.

"Lyla, come walk with me," her mother called, descending from the stairs that led to the yard and waiting.

Lyla looked to all three boys and curtsied in farewell, then took her mother's arm and proceeded to nowhere in particular.

"You'll be on your best behavior when the king arrives. No sword fighting with the boys, at not least while the royal family is here."

Lyla looked up at her mother through the hair that the wind blew into her face, frowning. "I dread the month that the king will remain here. I cannot ride, I cannot swing a sword… perhaps you'll be telling me that speaking to Jon will be forbidden as well."

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that…"

"About what, mother?" Lyla pulled away, pausing her step. Surely she did not intend for her to abandon Jon during the king's stay?

Her mother's eyes waivered for as short a moment as her lip quivered, as though in fear. Fear of me, she wondered, or of father's reaction when I told him? "We'll talk later."

Lyla stared after her mother as she walked off, then continued on to the stables, unable to forget what she'd meant to imply. Some rubble fell before her feet and she peered above her, seeing a small figure atop of the wall that wrapped around Winterfell. The lurker's identity was concealed by the sunlight, but it did not take her long to guess who it might be.

"Bran?" she called out, furrowing her brows. Her eyes were narrowed as she tried out the figure that was scaling the wall that overlooked the road. "Bran!"

Bran finished climbing down from the wall and hopped from the stable roof to the ground. "The king is coming! He's almost here!"

Lyla smiled down at her brother. He might have been a dangerously obscene boy when it came to climbing, but he was always safe. "Run off and tell father, then. Oh, and Bran!" He was already running off but turned. "Don't let mother catch you."

"Seven hells," Lyla cursed, "seven hells, seven hells!"

She'd gone to see her stallion, Morrow after she had caught Bran scaling the wall. Her poor darling boy was going to get fat sitting idle in the stables, and so she'd walked him around the paddock on a lead until she, suddenly overcome with exhaustion, fell asleep on the stacks of hay upon their return. It wasn't until the stable boy came to her and shook her awake that she realized she even dozed off.

"The king's come, m'lady," he told her as she jolted up, ripping hay from her curls.

She ran as quick as she could, panting the whole way. When she reached the courtyard, Lyla had never felt so alienated. There the king was, greeting her father, not a single spot open for her in her family's lineup. Lady Catelyn's cold blue eyes were on her in an instant, and cut her like a knife.

She pulled out one last piece of hay from her hair and ran her hands over her skirts to smooth them as she steadied her breathing and scooted in between Robb and Sansa.

"I knew we were a girl short," the king jested, placing a firm grip on her shoulder. He didn't truly see her until after he'd spoken, and his eyes popped a little. "Looks like Lyanna, this one."

Her father looked at the king with sadder eyes then. "She's my eldest daughter, Your grace. Lyla."

"Lyla," King Robert repeated wistfully, tasting the name on his tongue.

She folded her hands in her lap and straightened her back. "I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your grace."

King Robert snorted. "Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I've never seen such a vast emptiness." He ripped his eyes from hers then, looking to Lord Eddard. "Where are all your people?"

"Likely they were too shy to come out," her father jested. "Kings are a rare sight in the North."

The king gazed at her again and Lyla shifted uncomfortably. "Take me to the crypt, Ned. I would pay my respects."

"We've traveled a month, my love. Surely the dead can wait." Lyla didn't even notice the Queen before then, but now her eyes flickered to where she stood. She was a tall woman, thin for the three children she'd had, with high cheekbones to compliment her emerald green eyes. Her hair was as golden as the sun, and she was dressed in thick robes of red and orange and pink, as if the warm tones of fabric would shield her from the northern winds. The queen, she realized.

King Robert narrowed his eyes at his wife for a moment, and Lyla observed that the queen's twin, the man she was raised to hate, was at her side, his hand gracing her elbow to silence her. When no more was said, King Robert and Lord Stark went off, the queen walking up to her mother, who bowed and smiled, introducing the children.

Lyla didn't hear her though, her eyes set on Jaime Lannister. He was tall, like his sister, but more so, with light skin and thick set brows that weren't unbecoming of him. His hair was golden and his eyes were greener than any grass Lyla had seen. His eyes wandered to her and she immediately looked to her feet, bowing as the queen passed by her, murmuring a, "your grace."

He had not seemed so evil, then, and in fact, if she had not been raised to mislike the Lannisters, she might have thought him lovely.

"Where's the Imp?" Arya whispered boldly, tugging at Lyla's skirts and staring from the Lannister twins to the Baratheon children, all smiles with green eyes and golden hair.

Sansa hissed a quiet shut up, and Lyla raised a brow at her auburn haired little sister to quiet her.

The queen, Lady Cersei, looked over to Ser Jaime. "Where is our brother? The little monster…"

Her mother had started walking off with the queen, which meant to Lyla that it was time to leave. While Sansa stayed and walked with her mother, and Rickon as well, she, Robb, and Bran went off to the training yard, Jon joining them from the back of the crowd with Theon. Arya had run off on her own, not telling where she was headed to.

"Why were you so late?" Robb asked her once they reached the yard.

Theon pulled a sole surviving strand of hay from the back of her head and grinned. "Sleeping in the stables, were we?"

"Quiet, you," Lyla threatened musingly, snatching the hay from Theon. She tossed it behind her shoulder.

"Lady Stark was not happy," Jon added, folding his arms.

Lyla sighed, knowing the truth of it, and sat on a chair by the fence. Russet brown ringlets tumbled over her shoulders. Bran pulled himself onto her lap then, and smiled charmingly.

"Will you tell a story, Lyla?" They all looked at her, waiting, and she smiled. She could not help but indulge her brother.

"I will tell you one better- I will tell you a truth. Do you know why I was so late?" Bran was quiet but his body shivered with curiosity and excitement. "I was snatched up by a dragon. His scales were onyx black, his eyes so red that a million men's blood couldn't have done it justice. He swept me up and spirited me away, only I tamed him and flew back just in time to greet the king."

"How'd you tame it?" he asked, blue eyes wide.

Lyla looked around the group of elder boys and they all had become curious as well, taking seats around her while Bran wiggled on her lap. He was surprisingly light for a seven year old. "At first he was relentless," she began. "He set me atop the tallest mountain he could find and wrapped around me like I were his prisoner. I simply could not let him have me, so I waited until he slumbered to climb onto his scalding hot neck and smacked him awake. He did not know what hit him! Before I could say "Go!" he flew up into the air and swung past Winterfell, where I slipped off of him and landed in a pile of hay, just in time to greet the king."

Bran looked astounded, mouth gaped open. "More, Lyla, more!"

She laughed then and kissed his brow before sliding him from her lap and stretching her legs. "Later, little one."

Her direwolf sat at her side quietly the whole time, but suddenly perked up, running off. "Girl!" Lyla called, but it did not return. The boys looked at her, confused, and she took off running after it.

It didn't take long to find her, sitting atop someone and licking them profusely. "You, come here!" Lyla called, and this time the direwolf obeyed, bouncing back to her master happily. "Stay," she commanded, and the wolf sat.

"I'm so sorry, she's just a pup-" Lyla stopped when she saw the face of the man who was knocked over.

It were Ser Jaime Lannister, sitting up already, dusting his hair off by running his fingers through it. He looked up at her and smiled charmingly. "Don't worry about it. I've had worse."

"I'm sure," she managed, offering him her hand and helping him up. His grasp was firm and there were callouses on his hand, though it was gentle.

When he stood, Lyla realized how small she was. He must have been at least a foot taller than her, if not more. He seemed to notice it too, and grinned down at her. "You're the late Stark, are you not?" he asked.

Lyla blinked. "I suppose I am."

"Perhaps, Lady Stark, we were merely early," he told her, winking.

"Perhaps." She smiled too then. "I trust you're settling in well, ser? Is your room accommodating enough?"

Ser Jaime nodded as he began dusting off his clothes. "Everything is perfect. How is it that the castle is so warm, though? I mean, it's dreadful out here."

"On the contrary, it's rather a warm day, today," Lyla commented, then remembered she was speaking to a southerner. "The castle was built on a hotspring. It's always warm within its walls."

"Interesting…" He knelt, patting the ground before him. "May I?"

Lyla noticed he was staring at her direwolf and nodded. "Come here, girl," she called, and the beast sprang up, padded towards her happily.

The direwolf's brown eyes glittered in the sunlight, and she pranced to Jaime as he patted the ground, and then her red-brown fur. "Have you named her?"

"No." She smiled down at the wolf and stroked her. Their fingers touched for a moment and he looked up at her with a gleam in his eyes of emerald green.

She pulled her hand away and kept her eyes off of him, focusing on the wolf. He shrugged and buried his hands in her fur. "Pretty, pretty girl," he praised the wolf. "You should name her something southern. She has warmth in her."

"The Wall will melt before we have southron wolves in Winterfell," she remarked, not unkindly.

He laughed and straightened himself, the wolf taking its place beside Lyla's side. "You're rather bold, considering you're speaking to the Kingslayer." She caught his wince at the title. In truth, she'd forgotten who he was. He did not seem the crude, evil man of her father's stories.

Lyla looked away. "You are not what I had thought you to be," she admitted, for he was not at all. His smiling face and casual musings reminded her much of Robb and Theon.

"Really?" He looked down at her and she nodded. "How apt." He folded his arms and his green eyes bore her blue ones for a dangerously long time before she looked away.

"You should get some rest, ser. You've traveled far and there's going to be a feast tonight, in the king's honor."

"Yes, of course." He smiled and stepped closer to pat the direwolf between the ears. "Good day, my lady."

Lyla watched as he went, smiling to herself. How could that man have been the one who slayed the Mad King? He was so kind to her. She turned to make for her chambers but stopped, seeing Robb, Theon, and Jon before her, all with raised brows.

"What?" she questioned.

Theon was the first to speak, laughing in the way that comforted her. "You two seemed comfortable."

"Too comfortable," Jon roused.

Robb nodded in agreement. "I didn't like it. He's the Kingslayer, Lya."

"Whatever he may be, I find I rather enjoyed his company," Lyla replied, even surprising herself, who had been so spiteful of the Lannisters before their arrival. Perhaps it was not so unusual to hear one thing but see another.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"It's a dress, of course I look silly."

"Arya, you don't look silly."

"I look like Sansa." Arya wrinkled her nose and Lyla rolled her eyes. They'd been at it for hours, the two Stark girls, but it wasn't growing old. Not one bit. In fact, Lyla was amused by her little sister's ranting. "Besides, I don't see why I have to wear a dress. It's not like they've never seen a girl in breeches before."

Lyla sat her sister down and began brushing through her hair. I'm certain they haven't. Not in court... She sighed. "You look like our aunt, not Sansa. She has our mother's Tully looks- but you? You're a Stark through and through."

Arya smiled to herself then, eying her sister through the looking glass. "You look more like her than I do. Aunt Lyanna, that is. Everyone says so."

"Father said you have her eyes. So pretty and grey. Mine are Tully, not Stark"

It was no contest; Arya by far was her favorite sister. While she still loved Sansa with all her heart, the brave, bold, courageous Arya was so much of what she wanted to be herself. It was hard not to simply adore her.

Arya's smile held while Lyla braided and twisted her hair into a northern styled bun. "You look lovely," she complimented, a hand on her sister's shoulder.

"Oh shut up," Arya shot back, embarrassed. Her sister blushed, and then turned to her. "Jon told me you were talking to Jaime Lannister."

Lyla certainly wasn't expecting that. "I was," she replied carefully.

Arya's eyes glittered. "Really? Did you ask him what it was like to fight? Or how it felt to hold a real sword?"

"I could tell you that much." Lyla mused, patting her sister's back lightly until she slipped from the chair. "He did ask about my direwolf, though."

Arya rolled her eyes. "I could have asked you that much." They both laughed.

"Come on now. Mother will be cross if we're not there on time."

They walked through the halls quickly, being joined by Sansa and Rickon, who clung to Lyla's blood red skirt for life it seemed. "Come here, you," she murmured, holding her brother to her hip and kissing his cheek.

"Lya, will you dance with me at the feast?" he asked, looking up at her through his hair in a way that reminded her of Jon. She frowned then, remembering her mother's insinuation, and the talk that followed earlier that night.

"He's a Stark too, by blood if not by name," she reasoned. Her hands were on her hips and she had her eyes narrowed. Her mother had none of it.

"Lyla, I'll hear no more. The king has born many bastards, and it would make the queen uneasy."

She was brought back to reality when Rickon tugged a strand of her hair. "Lya!"

"Yes, wild wolf, I'll dance with you." She laughed tightly and set him down, watching him run to where their mother stood at the end of the hall. She was reluctant to see her mother, and the way that Lady Catelyn looked at her made her feel even more so. Such ice in her eyes, one wouldn't think she's southern.

"Lyla, you look beautiful." Lord Eddard stood tall, wearing his best clothes- all grey and black and white. "And you, girls, so pretty." Arya hugged him and Sansa, as ladylike as ever, blushed and curtsied.

Lady Catelyn smiled at the girls and kissed them. Rickon too. She gave them their praises, along with Bran and Robb as they arrived. All the while, avoiding her eldest daughter.

"Ned, still in grey I see," bellowed the king as he neared. He was draped in fancy velvets and furs, his crown looking as light as a feather the way he held his head so high. Still yet, his stomach was robust and his beard, unkempt and too scruffy, did a weak job covering his chins. "Lyla, you look more like your aunt every time I see you."

"Your grace." She bowed and smiled up at him as best she could. "I'm honored."

King Robert laughed and hugged her as though he'd known her for her whole five-and-ten years. "I feel more honored than any to be in your presence," he murmured to her.

Lyla gasped, holding her breath until he released her. He stunk like wine already. "You are too kind, your grace."

Queen Cersei was standing beside him the whole time and yet Lyla had seemed to miss her yet again. Always her husband's shadow, she observed. The queen was adorned in her maiden House colors, red and gold, with a small tiara fixed into her hair, an emerald in the center of it. Far too extravagant for such a small feast.

Lord Eddard took the queen's arm and led her into the hall after Lyla's mother had gone. Sansa and the other three little Starks walked in together, and when they were alone Robb looked his sister up and down from raised brows.

"You cleaned up well, sister. Is that red? I've never seen that color on you before."

Lyla pursed her lips, looking down at her dress. It was one her mother had sent her the night before, though gave no word. The gown was nice enough, fitting like a glove in all the right places and draping out at the bottom. It was lined with black, rather than Lannister gold, and her sleeves were lace, though they could hardly be seen through the masses of thick brown curls that covered them. "You flatter me, Robb."

Theon walked in then, looking at her the way Robb had. "Has this anything to do with your encounter with the Ser Jaime Lannister?" he mused.

"Both of you so quick to judge? No, it was sent by mother," she replied, frustrated at their japes.

"It is rather becoming a gown, if I may be so bold." Lyla spun around and stepped back quickly when she saw Ser Jaime Lannister smiling in front of her. She could feel Robb and Theon's stares hot on the back of her head, sensing their uneasiness at his spreading smile.

"Ser," she said in quick greeting. He looked dapper, as one could only expect, in fine velvets and furs, all of a warm golden red with a pale cloak about his shoulders.

She glanced over her shoulder to see Robb and Theon give her wavered looks before turning and walking into the hall. Upon returning her gaze to Ser Jaime, she flushed slightly, noticing that he hadn't taken his eyes from her.

"May I?" He held his arm out for her and she slipped her own through it. "I wasn't lying, you know. You do look lovely. Red suits you."

Lyla smiled. If he was lying, he didn't show it. "I admit, I've always felt too stiff in silk." She gestured her hand down the length of the gown and laughed quietly.

Jaime raised a brow. "You don't look it."

They entered the hall then, and Lyla marveled at it. The chandeliers were full of thick yellow candles and there were banners of grey and black and white everywhere. People danced and sang and drank, some eating and some simply enjoying the company.

She hadn't noticed her father come up to speak to her until Ser Jaime spoke. "I hear we might be neighbors soon. I hope it's true."

He still smiled, but his tone made Lyla uneasy. "Yes," her father said. "King Robert has honored me with his offer."

Lyla frowned, remembering the reason for the king's visit.

"I'm sure we'll have a tournament to celebrate your new title. If you'll accept. It'll be good to have you in the field. Competition's a bit stale." So her father had accepted the position as Hand of the King?

Her eyes shot to Lord Eddard, who looked at her with his ever somberness for only a moment before his eyes were back to the Lannister knight. "I don't fight in tournaments."

"No?" He leaned in to her father's ear and whispered of him getting too old for it. She stared incredulously at him. He had been so kind to her, yet was a beastly thing to her father.

"I don't fight in tournaments because when I fight a man for real, I don't want him to know what I can do," Lord Eddard explained. Lyla fell from Ser Jaime's side and went to stand near her father.

Ser Jaime's unyielding smile grew then. "Well said."

Her father raised a brow at her and she looked down, knowing his stare was a reprimand for how openly she'd welcomed this lion. She saw her mistake now.

She was about to leave too, then, but Ser Jaime caught her arm. "I am sorry about that. I hadn't meant to be so crass."

"No need to apologize, Ser Jaime." She gave him a false smile before turning again- gasping. "Uncle Benjen!" she cried, running and jumping into his waiting arms, throwing her own around his neck. He smelled of snow and pine and ice and family. "I have missed you so terribly," she whispered to him.

Her uncle, who looked nearly a twin to her father only younger and darker haired, smiled thoughtfully. "And I you, my darling little one." He kissed her forehead and raised a brow at her choice of gown. "Summer colors have never suited the Starks, and yet you pull it off so well."

She blushed, as she so often did for her uncle, and twirled for him. "Why thank you, uncle. Mother sent it for me."

He placed his hand on her shoulder. It was warm, and she knew then that he'd just taken off his thick leather gloves. "Where's your father?" he asked, and Lyla looked to where the king sat, kissing a thick waisted serving wench with dark northern hair and coal eyes. She felt a pang of sympathy for the queen then, but quickly remembered the last time she'd shown kindness towards a Lannister. The queen's eyes were hot on her husband.

"I'll see you tomorrow, yes?" Benjen smiled and her eyes were on his again as she smiled in return. He left then, leaving Lilliana's eyes to linger to where Jon sat in the back of the room.

"Jon," she called, waving as she strode to him. She took a seat across the table and grabbed a cup of wine. They were only allowed one per feast, the Stark children, so she would make this last.

His grey eyes met her blue ones as hard as stone. "Lady Stark will be cross, seeing you back here with the bastard."

"Oh, Jon. You're my brother. I won't leave you lonely," she reminded him, sipping the wine tastefully. It warmed her throat and the sweetness made her want to hum. "Have you danced yet?"

Jon shook his head, near-black ringlets swaying. "Nor will I."

"Oh you won't?" Lyla smirked challengingly at him and took him firmly by the wrist. "I think I can change your mind."

She swung him around the room like a couple of children, and men and women alike laughed at them, jesting that Lyla was leading like Jon should have been. Jon didn't like that, though, and took her hands firmly, waltzing her and spinning her around the room, worries melting away. She did not even think of her mother, who she could feel staring haughtily at her.

Robb cut in, Theon after him, and little Rickon after him. "You promised me a dance," he reminded her with his sweet little voice. Lyla smiled warmly and lifted him into the air, assaulting his cheeks with kisses.

"Lady Lyla."

Rickon howled like a wolf as she sat him down, looking up and raising a brow. "Ser Jaime. You might well leave me be, lest others think of you as persistant."

He folded his arms, furrowing his brows. "Is that so terrible? I thought we were getting along well enough."

"Not when you insult my father. Now if you'll excuse me…" Lyla inclined her head to Sansa and Arya, then turned on her heels and walked from the hall.

Immediately fresh air filled her lungs, and she realized how calm it was out in the yard. She traced her finger on a post and leaned her head on it, inhaling the scent of the wood.

"You're cross with me." She hadn't even heard him follow her.

"By the gods, you gave me a fright!"

"What did I say to offend you?"

Lyla spun around, holding her head high. She felt dizzy, moving so fast, and her curls swung and rested over her shoulders. "You were standing there, with my arm in yours, as you insulted my father. If I'm not mistaken, ser, you called him old- too old to ride, or to battle, take your pick. Well, you know, you're rather old yourself."

Ser Jaime's eyes widened, and Lyla could swear it was from amusement. It made her all the more furious. "First I'm insulting and now I'm old? Tell me again, who is offending who?"

"You're only a couple years younger than my lord father," she replied quickly. Her direwolf came around the corner then and jumped at Lyla's skirts, licking her hands as she was pet. "Hello darling," she cooed, scratching her ears. For a moment, she'd forgotten the presence of Jaime Lannister.

"Truly, you're rather bold to speak to me as such," Ser Jaime observed once more, as he had when she'd first spoken to him in the yard, patting the direwolf's back. "A quality one does not often find in a lady."

Lyla eyed him warily, wondering how he could do it. How he could be so infuriating one moment, but gentle the next. It made her head spin. "Then perhaps I'm not quite a lady," she replied quietly.

"Of course you are. Just not a practiced one it seems."

"I guess I don't have a desire to please anyone but myself."

"Another rare quality. You're turning out to be a rather unique rose."

Lyla frowned. "A rose? Certainly a Stark more resembles a wolf. I'd rather be a wolf."

Jaime's smile returned and he raised a brow. "Wouldn't you just."

Their eyes held for a while and it took Lyla's wolf shifting on its paws, whining, for them to look away from each other. "You're not forgiven," she warned, though caught her lips tugging into a smile.

"I suppose if I'm to stay here for so long, I might as well get on your good side," Ser Jaime remarked lightly. "And I guess asking for forgiveness won't do?"

Lyla shook her head, trying to blow away hair that fell in her eyes away without avail. Before she knew it, Ser Jaime's hand was at her face, brushing the curls behind her ear. She stepped back, brows furrowing. "I should go."

Ser Jaime frowned. It was the first time she'd seen him frown, and probably would be the last, so she absorbed it; the way his forehead wrinkled and his eyes dimmed. "Sorry. I shouldn't have…"

"Goodnight, Ser Jaime." Lyla turned her back to him and began walking up the stairs to the balcony, and then to her room- not being able to help the way her lips curved towards the stars. She'd already forgotten the crude things he'd said to her father.

"Don't you look right happy?" She turned quickly, seeing a figure in the dark of the night. Theon sat on the end of the balcony, by the door to his room.

"You're not at the feast?" Lyla raised a brow and tried to think of that Theon might have known. Jaime Lannister had just- What? What had he done? Brushed hair behind her ear? She bit her lip. She was so giddy because he'd shown kindness to her? Most likely false at that. She was a Stark, she ought to act as such.

It was easy to think of these things away from his company.

Theon shrugged at her question. "Too hot," he told her, "too loud."

Lyla sat beside him and sighed. "Indeed."

"I heard you and the Kingslayer talking."

Her eyes widened and she faced him. "What did you hear?"

"Enough to be worried." Theon's eyes were sharp and dark. "Don't go messing around with a man like that. He's no good. Do you not remember his name? Jaime Lannister. He's the Kingslayer, Lyla."

Any happiness in her fell and she looked away. "I will not be reprimanded by my father's ward. Goodnight Theon." She rose abruptly and turned away, entering the castle before he could think to apologize.

Warmth embraced her quickly, wrapping itself around her and sucking away the cold she didn't know was suffocating her. She pulled pins from her hair and shook what little of it was contained with her fingers as she entered her chamber, the direwolf at her heels.

"You're a loyal girl, aren't you? Always following me about." Lyla smiled and kissed the pup's nose before she slid from her silk gown and shimmied into her sleeping shift. She stood by the windowsill for a moment before retreating to her bed. The fur covers had never looked more inviting and she curled around them as fast as she could, sighing as she sunk into the feathery mattress. "Come on, girl." She patted the bed beside her and the wolf bounced onto the furs, rolling around before cuddling around Lyla's feet.

"Rose," she whispered to herself once she was settled, toying with the fur on the wolf's back. She no longer felt the way she had when she was in Theon's company-angry for befriending the knight- and recalled her conversation with the lion warmly, smiling. "Maybe I should call you rose. How about that?"

The wolf perked up and she laughed. The sound echoed off of her walls. "Well, Rose it is. Goodnight, little Rose," she murmured, yawning and allowing her weighted lids shut for the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Relax your grip," Lyla instructed, biting into an apple.

"Like this?" Bran loosened his hold on the sword and began swinging at the practice dummy eagerly.

Lyla nodded, finishing the rest of her apple as her brother swung. Bran had been jabbing at the dummy for hours, before she was even awake, slashing and stabbing as though it were an enemy. Just as he was about to go in for another slice, the sword slipped from his hand and spun across the yard to Lyla's feet. "Whoa," She breathed, looking up at Bran.

He was frowning, kicking the dirt. "I'll never be any good."

"Oh Bran," Lyla murmured, picking up the sword and closing the distance between them. "Bran you're a Stark of Winterfell. You're strong and brave and kind, and with practice-" she placed the sword in his hand, curling his fingers around the pommel, "-you'll be a great warrior."

Bran smiled then, blue eyes bright. "You really think so Lya?"

"Of course I do, sweet brother." Lyla pulled him into a hug and kissed the top of his head before retreating back to her seat across the yard, under the balcony. "Try again, Bran."

Bran nodded and shook his sword arm out before attacking the dummy again. It was still barely past sunlight, the rays pouring over the hills like water. The sky was still dark, a deep rolling blue with pink seeping in from the western sunrise, and the birds were all asleep. Torches along the walls were still lit, their light making the castle glow, and aside from Bran's sword and Lyla's voice, there was an eerie, ringing silence.

Lyla was so concentrated on Bran's practice that she didn't notice anyone come up behind her. "Good morn, Lyla," they greeted, two voices melting into one.

She jumped a little and coughed before greeting them with a, "good morn." She never took her eyes from her little brother.

"So intent, Stark?"

From how snarky and light the comment sounded, Lyla guessed it was Theon Greyjoy. "He needs guidance just as much as you did as a boy. I remember sitting on the balcony with Septa Mordane, watching you practice with Robb and Jon. You weren't a very good swordsman back then, if I recall correctly."

She could feel the smirk in Jon's voice as he took his turn speaking. "She's right. Bran's faring better than you did at that age, Greyjoy."

Lyla spared them each a glance before returning her gaze to Bran, who was stabbing at the dummy mercilessly. "He's doing well, and he's doing it right, that's all that matters."

"You sure sound proud, Stark," Theon observed, taking the seat to her right and Jon to her left.

Lyla shrugged. "I am. Feign from being too familiar with me today, Theon. I have not forgotten last night."

He scoffed angrily and looked away. So did she. She would not forgive him easily. Making her feel so childish had wounded her more than it made her feel angry, because he was right. She was too friendly to the golden haired knight, and there were no excuses, not when he'd so blatantly insulted House Stark.

Lyla's eyes swung over to where Robb was entering the yard with their father, Lord Eddard. He seemed in high enough spirits today, considering the crude words Ser Jaime had said to him.

"Good arm, Bran," her father praised. Robb nodded in agreement.

"Father, Robb, you've slept well I trust?" Lyla greeted, smiling.

Robb smiled. "Wonderfully," he said. Their father simply shrugged, murmuring, "I was up late."

Lyla nodded, knowing how long he must have stayed up with her mother for the feast. "Are you two headed to the stables?"

Lord Eddard shook his head. "Not yet. The hunt isn't until midday."

"We're going to the main hall, would you like to join us?"

The thought of going into the main hall again so soon made Lyla shudder, remembering the strength of the wine she drank the night before and how her head was still pounding. Still, she was hungry, admitting in her mind that the apple she ate earlier wouldn't suffice for the whole morning. "Sure, Robb," She agreed, looking over to Bran. "Are you going to be alright here, brother?"

Bran nodded and Theon strode to his side. "I'll watch the little lordling, don't fret Stark."

"Jon, are you coming with?" She feared Jon would decline, in the event that he would meet Lady Stark in the hall, but instead he shrugged and stood, holding out his arm.

Lyla smiled and hooked her arm through his, purposefully walking far behind Robb and Father so they could talk alone. Rarely did they get time alone together, and she loved her brother dearly, cherishing every moment she shared with him. "Jon, did you see that Uncle Benjen is here?"

"Aye, I did," Jon replied.

"Did you speak with him? I mean, I'm sure you did..."

"I spoke with him, yes."

"About what?"

He hesitated, looking down. "About me… Going to the Wall."

Lyla froze, yanking her arm from his. Blue eyes burned into grey for gods knew how long before she finally spoke. "The Wall?" Her voice sounded shakier than she wanted it to, but her eyes held.

Jon's eyes wavered. "I'm not meant to be in Winterfell. I'm not a Stark."

"Yes you are," she protested, frowning. "You're a Stark by blood. A name doesn't define us, Jon, we define ourselves. You're more Stark than any of us here, save Father. You can't go."

"I have to go," he replied firmly. "Here?" He swung his arm out and to showcase the castle. "Here is not where I belong. I don't feel like I'm meant to be here, and it's already too late for you to stop me, I'm sure Uncle Benjen has already spoken to Father by now."

Lyla wiped unshed tears with the back of her hand, standing her ground. "Jon, you're my brother…"

Jon swept her into a deep embrace, his arms wrapping around her waist tightly as her own arms clung around his neck. "I know. I'm sorry to leave you, but Winterfell isn't my place. Especially with father leaving."

She dared not speak, lest tears begin to fall, and gave a stiff nod. She did understand, only she didn't want to. She knew her mother's cold hard glare had affected Jon throughout his years in Winterfell, and that he felt like an outcast, always being called the Stark's bastard or simply bastard. He deserves better than life here, Lyla tried to convince herself as she slunk from his arms, the warmth that enveloped her from his hug recoiling back to him and leaving her colder than she'd ever been. "I love you Jon, you're my brother," she managed, sighing shakily. "I'll support you, even if I don't want to."

"I know." Jon held his arm back out and she took it, holding him closer now that she knew he was going to be leaving her- probably as when Uncle Benjen would.

The rest of the walk to the main hall was quiet, save the sounds of their direwolves trekking behind them. Rose was panting happily, but Ghost was as silent as ever.

The hall was still ornate, thick banners of grey and white and black hung all around, chandeliers still full of fat yellow candles. Some of the tables were taken out so there was more open space to walk about, Jon and Lyla sitting beside their father and brother as soon as they found the table. It was placed one across from the royal family's reserved table, which was decorated with long draping tapestries of red and gold, cushioned chairs with silk covers of the same color scheme placed strategically around it.

Something about the red on the tablecloth and chairs reminded Lyla of her dress the night before, and then of the night itself. She bit into a piece of hot buttered bread as she recalled the talk between Ser Jaime and her father.

"Father, what offer did the King make you?"

Lord Eddard, who was drinking some milk, arched a brow and swallowed. "You remember that?"

"Yes," she replied, stealing another bite from the roll. "So, what was it? Are you Hand now?"

Robb's brows met, just as Jon's did. "What offer?" they asked in unison.

Their father sighed and set down his goblet, rubbing his temples. "The king has proposed to make a match between Sansa and the crowned Prince Joffrey."

"Sansa is too young for marriage." Robb sounded uneasy, and looked it all the same as Lyla's eyes fell on him.

"I know." Lord Eddard nodded. "And when I told him that, he said he had another match in mind."

"Who this time? Prince Tommen to Arya? Or maybe Princess Myrcella to Robb?" Lyla remarked dryly as Robb's cheeks pinkened.

"No, he suggested you and Ser Jaime Lannister."

It was Lyla's turn to blush then, the tickling feel reaching from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her burning ears. "Oh," she mouthed more than whispered, biting her lip. She'd never really thought of marrying anybody, especially not Jaime Lannister, and the prospect of it made her nervous.

As if Lord Eddard felt, or probably saw, her nerves, he placed a warm hand on her shoulder. "I've said nothing about either proposition. I was actually going to say no to both, but Robert is…"

"Robert is King, and he has his way," Robb finished, stabbing a chunk of deer and chewing it thoroughly, clearly on edge. "I don't like the idea of the Kingslayer bedding my sister."

Jon crossed his arms, turning to where, as if on cue, Ser Jaime walked in with the queen and the younger two of the three golden children. "I don't like the idea of it either."

"I already told you, I've said nothing on it." Their father sighed and stood. "Lyla, you should go sit in with Sansa and Arya today."

"Nonsense!" They all turned then to see the king standing behind them, hands firmly on his hips. "She'll be riding out with us. Go see to your horse, girl."

Lyla stared, bewildered. The king looked bright and happy- how could he be so? He had just arranged her life for her, just sentenced her to marriage with a stranger. Marriage with the Kingslayer. Her heart was thudding and she looked to her father, about to refuse, but he inclined his head and she reluctantly whispered, "yes, your grace."

After changing into a thick, dark green riding gown with gold lace sleeves and matching filigree stitching on the bodice, Lyla made her way to the stables. "Good morning," she greeted the stable boys, who pulled her stallion Morrow from his stall for her. They smiled and greeted her back, but Lyla was too consumed in brushing her horse by then to notice.

Morrow was a pretty thing, tall and strong with the darkest raven black mane she'd ever seen on a horse. His body was a deep misty grey mottled with black speckles that she'd heard the stable master call blue roan. "Such a pretty boy," she murmured to him as she brushed through his mane softly, kissing his jaw.

A voice sounded, and Lyla's head snapped around. "What a lucky horse to have such a loving owner."

A dwarf stood before her, bi-colored eyes of black and green as wicked as his smirk. She wouldn't have guessed him a Lannister if it weren't for the ringlets of white-gold atop his head.

"Lord Tyrion." She let her arms rest to her side and she curtsied. "A pleasure to meet you. I apologize that missed you at the feast."

He shrugged. "I didn't arrive until late, no doubt a girl like you would be in bed by the time I showed up."

She pursed her lips. "You weren't at the gates with the King when he arrived either."

"You noticed? I thought I'd been so sneaky."

"Clearly not enough so."

Tyrion smiled and took a seat on a stool, resting his arms on the hay stacks behind him. "I hear that you and I might be related soon, though it's undecided if you'll be my goodsister or the sister of my goodniece."

"I hear the same," Lyla admitted, pulling the brush through Morrow's windcurled mane again.

"Well, don't you sound delighted," Tyrion jested.

She frowned. "I have no say in whether or not the King would see that Ser Jaime and I are wed. Nor that of Sansa and Prince Joffrey."

Tyrion rubbed his naked jaw as though it were stubbled with hair. "Interesting that His Grace would relieve my brother from his duties in the Kingsguard to marry a girl who looks a ghost of his old lover."

"They weren't lovers," Lyla nearly growled through a clenched jaw. "My aunt Lyanna was his bride-to-be. His betrothed. They were in love."

"I didn't mean to offend you, my lady," he offered, "I was simply stating my opinion on the matter."

"I never asked your opinion on anything." She meant to refrain from being so vicious, but she would not stand for such a blow against her family. Lyanna was a good woman, fierce and strong, and even though Lyla had never seen her or met her, she loved her still. She was even named for her lost aunt.

Tyrion shrugged again, standing. "No worries, my lady. I'll take my leave as not to rouse your fire again. Good luck on the hunt."

She watched him go and huffed as she combed through the mud patches on Morrow's flank before tossing a heavy green blanket over his back and strapping the saddle on. She was pulling his halter on when her father came in.

"He looks good, Lyla," he complimented, patting the horse's neck.

"Thank you." She smiled slightly at the praise as she buckled the reins to the halter. After a moment of silence she turned to face her father. "Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

Lord Eddard nodded. "Lyla, you know I wouldn't force you into something you don't want to do, so I ask you… Do you want a way out of this engagement?"

"It sounds so final already," she murmured softly, sullenly.

"The king spoke more of it after you and the boys left… But you only have to ask it of me if you want out. I've already asked Sansa, but she's-"

"So we are both to be wed, not just one or the other?" Lyla bit her lip and laced her fingers through Morrow's mane for support. "Father, she's only eleven… And do the Starks and Lannisters not hate each other? Why does the king want a match between enemies?"

"Joffrey is a Baratheon," Lord Eddard corrected, "and sometimes it's better to bury the hatchet. To start anew."

Lyla's eyes found his then. "Ever since I was a child you told me the Lannisters were no friends of ours," she accused.

"They were not at the time, but they are not a threat now." He looked at her through tired silver eyes and sighed. "Tell me before we leave to King's Landing. That way I can spare you the journey if you're not to be marrying the Kingslayer."

"Don't call him the Kingslayer," Lyla said quietly, almost immediately wishing she hadn't, for her father gave her a weary look and she looked down in turn, then back up with an arched brow. "King's Landing? So you are going to be Hand?"

"Aye. I'm taking the girls, and Bran too. Maybe you if you decide to go through with this…"

She nodded slowly, pulling herself into the saddle though her father's hands were out to help her. "I'll tell you what I think about it after the hunt."

Lord Stark gave her a curt, almost somber, nod before stepping out of her way as she smacked the reins and Morrow trotted from the stable.

The hunt had just been called and Robb and Theon were riding with her father and Jory, while the King asked Lyla to ride with him and the southerners. She hadn't been accustomed to them since their arrival, but agreed, dodging the japes that suggested she would only slow them down because she was a woman, but she would prove them all wrong, she thought to herself with a smile curling on her lips.

As she spirited away, Lyla could taste the cool minty air on her tongue, feel it in her bones. They bolted into the Wolfswood, thundering hooves kicking up dust behind them. In that moment she didn't care about her mother's crude warning not to ride while the royal family was in Winterfell.

She didn't care that her family was being split up and scattered in the winter wind, or that the men were probably the most shocked they'd been in their entire lives to see her soar so fast. She even forgot, if only for a moment, that she was supposedly betrothed to Ser Jaime Lannister. All she cared about in that moment was the scent of the trees and the way that as they ran by each bird it woke and began to sing.

There was a gust of wind that blew through the woods and Morrow reared up before she tugged at the reins and halted him, waiting for the southerners to catch up.

"Damn fast horse," the king observed, eying Morrow. "Probably so fast cause you're lighter than a damned feather. Do you ever eat girl?"

Lyla laughed. The king was less and less daunting to deal with, lately. "More than a lady of my five-and-ten years should."

King Robert grinned and looked down as Rose hurried to catch up to her master. "Loyal little wolf you have there, girl."

"Rose is a good girl. All of the direwolves are." The wolf stopped at Morrow's hooves, panting heavily but not unhappily. Her tail thundered back and forth, the force of it causing leafs to fury in the wind it created.

The king was about to reply when one of the stable boys she greeted earlier rode up on a shaggy looking pony. "M'lady! M'lady, Lady Lyla, it's the wee lord!"

Wee lord? Lyla thought hard, furrowing her brows. The wee lord was the little lord. Little lord was what everyone called Bran- affectionately of course. "Bran?"

The boy nodded, swallowing roughly. "He's- He's fallen m'lady!"

Lyla's eyes grew wide with a fear that jerked her to tears. "Fallen?" was all she could manage before biting her lip until it bled. The stable boy nodded and she gripped the reins until her knuckles turned white. She looked to King Robert, and he looked just as concerned as she was.

"Go, girl," he commanded, and so she did.

Lyla had ridden fast before, so fast that all she could hear was the swooshing sound of wind as she and Morrow bounded through the woods, but she'd never gone as fast as she did when King Robert Baratheon told her, "go, girl."

Wind slapped her face until it felt like she was being stabbed by daggers and her grip on Morrow's reins turned deathly, but she couldn't slow down. In fact, she dug her heels into the stallion's sides until she truly thought he couldn't go any faster.

All that was going through her mind was Bran. Her sweet brother Bran, who only hours ago was out in the yard with her, practicing his swordplay. Her sweet brother Bran, who was so gentle she thought him to have a kitten's heart. She pulled up to the stables as quick as she could, catapulting from the saddle and tossing the reins to whoever was close enough to catch them. She ran into the castle as fast as her legs could carry her. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe or hear, as she forcefully shoved open the door to Bran's room.

There he lay, pale creamy skin looking dull, shadows already forming under his eyes. His expression was painful and queer and his thick Tully hair was like a flame about him. "Oh Bran," she croaked, throat dry from all the air she took in while riding. "Sweet, sweet Bran." He didn't twitch, didn't move a finger at her voice. Nothing. She didn't notice her mother across from her new spot kneeling at the side of her brother's bed until she spoke.

"He fell. From the east tower. Jaime Lannister carried him in and set him on the bed. Maester Luwin… He said he didn't know if Bran…" Lady Catelyn Stark didn't look away from the thing she was weaving in her hands, a charm or dream catcher from the look of it, and her voice was so thick with angst and grief that Lyla's eyes overflowed with tears and they cascaded down her cheeks. She couldn't see Bran this way. She couldn't not know if her brother would live or die as he lay in his bed with that painful look.

She stepped away from the bed, quicker and quicker until she was running. It was all she could do to not fall to the floor and weep.

She didn't know when she was stopping or how long she'd run for, only that as soon as she passed the yard she dropped to her knees and cried. Cold chills made her shiver and slouch until her whole body was on the ground and she was convulsing in full-body sobs.

She heard someone call her name in the distance but curled around herself, not caring who saw her. All she cared about was Bran, and how his life, his fragile and beautiful life, was in the hands of the gods who had been merciless enough to steal her grandfather, uncle, and aunt away before she was even born. She cursed as she cried, and tried to wipe her eyes as she saw someone approach her.

"Lady Lyla?"

It was Jaime Lannister in all his golden glory, green eyes thick with concern. It made her cry all the harder. "I-I'm s-sorry, I-I-"

"Shhh," he hushed her, pulling her up from the ground and wrapping his arms around her without a second thought. He didn't try and move her, didn't try and kiss the top of her head or say anything comforting, only held her. After a long hesitation, Lyla wrapped her thin arms around him and let her hot tears stream as she buried her face into the crook of his neck.

Ser Jaime smelled of honey and a tinge of lavender oil, and Lyla indulged in it, arms strengthening their hold on his neck until she was nearly pulling herself from the ground. She didn't know why she was crying to him, why she was letting him hold her in his strong arms, or why she was reacting with her own embrace of him- it all was happening so quick that before she knew it Jaime Lannister was pulling away from her, leaning down, and covering her lips with his own.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Jaime woke up slowly, prodding his fingers around the bed until he found the fur covers and tugged them up to his chin, wincing when his knuckle brushed his cheek. He was momentarily confused at the sudden flash of pain but as he felt sleep receding from him, his memory flooded back.

He'd been conversing with a northern soldier when he saw her, sprinting through the castle in a blur of loose curls and sniffles. Not caring for the knight's presence anymore, he jolted after her, calling her name as she ran through the training yard and quickening his pace when she fell to her knees and sobbed to her heart's content.

She'd been cursing about her brother Bran when he approached her. "Lady Lyla?"

In her haste, she pushed from where she'd curled around herself on the ground and tried wiping her eyes as she sat up. "I-I'm s-sorry I-I-"

"Shhh." He didn't want to hear her sad, broken voice. For some reason it struck home with him, made him frown. Without a second thought, Jaime pulled her up and wrapped his arms around her thin waist, his hands splaying on the expanse of the velvety fabric of her gown. Hesitantly, Lyla reached her arms around his neck, burying her face into the crook of it and letting out the last of her hot, salty tears.

He knew why she was crying. He had carried the little lordling inside and laid him on his bed, not sparing him a second glance as he left the Maester to his work, though a nagging feeling told him to. He was about to speak when she tightened her hold on him, body shaking.

In the heat of the moment, he only knew one thing that might help ease her from her worries and calm her down, so he let his hands retreat from her back and rest on her upper arms, thumbs gently caressing the feel of her milky skin underneath the golden lace. Slowly, he pulled away and the hazy, confused look in her silk blue eyes drew him in, and he kissed her.

He kissed her soft and he kissed her slow. Kissed her so she would forget everything and stop being so sad. Kissed her so he would forget everything and stop being so guilty. That is, until she shoved him away from her with what little energy she had left and slapped him so hard that an echo ripped through the Wolfswood that branched behind them.

They were both shocked, Jaime's green eyes bulging and his hand tenderly touching the place on his cheek that was already turning red, Lady Lyla backing away from the surprise of her strength, eyes both scared and blazing with fury. With every step he took towards her, she took two steps back, until eventually she shook her head in disbelief of her actions and turned, resuming the sprint that caught Jaime so off guard.

Damn good arm, Jaime thought, grunting at the knock that sounded at his door. "Come in," he called, only loud enough so that the knocker could hear.

His eyes were still closed, but he peered through his lids when the door opened, sitting up when Cersei shut it behind her. Her golden hair cascaded down her shoulders, loose and waving subtly, creamy skin flushed with morning sunlight, her eyes distant, tired, mouth curling into a frown. "The boy lives."

"So he does." Jaime slid from his bed and began dressing. He chose a blood red and gold doublet and a deep grey cloak with crimson lining. When Cersei said nothing, he continued. "I spoke with Robert yesterday, after it all. Tried to get out of the engagement." It had been after Lady Lyla's blow, when he was fluster and his pride wounded.

"How dare he pair you with that little whore? She's a spiteful, stinking little wolf bitch- far too low born for you."

Jaime recalled her smelling of rosewater and rain, not at all unpleasant. "She's not too lowborn. Too young maybe, but the Starks have been here as long as the free people."

Cersei folded her arms over her chest. "You're a member of his Kingsguard, you've taken vows. He cannot do this!"

"He's king. He made sure I knew that yesterday when we spoke." He fussed with lacing his breeches and then buttoned his undershirt. "He's taking me from the Kingsguard when we get home to King's Landing."

"He cannot do that! Even as king! He cannot!"

"Keep quiet, Cersei." Jaime clasped his cloak on and covered her mouth with his fingers to silence her, but she wouldn't have it and shoved his hand away.

"You're nothing without the Kingsguard."

Her words stabbed him. "I'll be Lord of Casterly Rock once father passes. I'll still be a knight."

"And you'll be wed to a dirty wolf whore, you'll cast me aside and leave me to rot in King's Landing with the children so Robert can plunder into our bed and fuck me whenever he pleases, use me like a meatbag to hit and slap and punch. All for that whore."

Jaime grit his teeth, growing tired of Cersei's nickname for her. Lyla Stark was a great many things; courteous, strong, bold, but not a whore. "When I spoke to Robert, he told me he's relieving me of my duties in the Kingsguard, and that I'm to marry the girl- but only if she agrees with it. Lord Stark made it very clear that if she says no, there will be no wedding and I'll remain in my position in the Kingsguard."

Cersei narrowed her eyes. "And if she doesn't say no? What then? You'll go back to Casterly Rock with your whore? Muddy our bloodline with her filth? Yesterday would have been all for naught if you marry her!"

"She's not a whore," he drawled, tone angered. He was not sure what made him so defensive of her. Cersei looked taken aback but quickly composed herself, holding her head high and standing.

"I'm going to break my fast with the children. Join me or not, I don't care." And with that, she stormed from his chamber, slamming the door behind her.

Jaime avoided the great hall that morning, skipping his morning meal and heading over to the stables to check on his horse. He was about to turn the corner when he heard voices, and slinked into the shadows, ducking behind a haystack.

"The cook's daughter said she saw you out in the field behind the training yard yesterday," came a light, rasping voice.

"How'd you win that out of her?" Jaime knew that voice, but couldn't put a name to it.

"I have my ways." The first voice was musing, then.

"I do not wish to know how you tortured that poor girl for your information," remarked the second voice, dry and bored.

"Are you sure? I could go on about how I-"

"Theon, that's enough. Really."

"You never said that she was lying, so what were you doing out there? She said that the Kingslayer was with you."

"None of your business, Greyjoy. And don't call him Kingslayer."

"Come on, Lyla, just tell me. I'm not your brother like Robb and Jon, I won't get my skirts in a ninny about it."

So it was Lady Lyla talking to the Greyjoy boy? Jaime raised a brow and peered over the haystack, only to be confirmed of his suspicions. There she stood, back towards him with her dark brown hair billowing towards the small of her back, covering the better part of a thick blue dress with white laces.

She paced slightly, less heavy-stridden than Cersei, more delicate. Thoughtful. "You can't tell."

Theon raised his hands up in surrender. "Who would I tell?"

"I don't make this threat lightly, Theon. If you mention this to anyone, I'll find out. You'll be begging my forgiveness. I may have to kill you."

"With what? Your sewing needles?"

"Don't be so sure I couldn't." Jaime could almost hear her smile.

"So, what were you doing out there?"

She hesitated before answering. "I ran out there after… after I saw Bran. I guess he ran after me or something, cause he was there and he… we…"

"You're still a maiden aren't you?" The Greyjoy boy's fists were clamming up and he looked darkly serious then. "I'll kill him. Robb and Jon might kill him first, but I'll do it a third time after them."

Lady Lyla laughed and turned so Jaime could see the sunlight dance past her face, drowning her milky skin that looked ever lighter than Cersei's, nearly translucent. He traced the curve of her lips and nose with his eyes, drinking it all in. "I'm a maiden still, Theon."

"Did you kiss him?"

He could see the blush creeping from her neck to her cheeks. But it disappeared as quickly as it came. "I wouldn't put it that way."

"Did he kiss you?"

"He did but…I ran away."

"Seven hells, Lyla! How could you let him get that close?"

"I needed someone. Bran fell and I was crying and he-"

"You were crying?"

"I am human, Theon, am I not allowed to cry? Mayhaps I should smack you as I smacked him." Her eyes were regretful then, and she looked down. "I shouldn't have struck him."

Theon folded his arms and sat on a haystack. "It's good you did, glad someone wiped that smirk from his face."

Lady Lyla gave a halfhearted laugh and leaned on a wall. Jaime was bubbling with curiosity. She'd never kissed a man? Did that mean he was her first? He liked the idea of something being only his, not having to share like he had to share Cersei with Robert.

"My father told me the king's made a match of us, Ser Jaime and I."

Theon barked a laugh that made Jaime grit his teeth. "The Kingslayer and you? That's a cruel jape, even for the king."

"Theon."

"Alright, alright. Ser Jaime." He sighed, still smiling at her. Jaime didn't like that they were so apparently close, all alone in the stable- if he weren't there that is. "You want to call it off?"

Lady Lyla shrugged. "I don't want to get married. And he's in the Kingsguard beside, so I'm not sure how that would even work. And Bran needs me… But the girls are going to King's Landing. They'll need me more." She looked lost in thought, subconsciously nibbling her bottom lip.

"Why do you have to marry the Kingslay- Ser Jaime in order to go to King's Landing?"

"Because father won't let me go otherwise. He says he'd rather I stayed in Winterfell, but my sisters will be alone so often, with him being the Hand. How can I leave them like that? At the mercy of the city…"

Jaime was moved by how much she thought about her family. How she was considering marrying him, a stranger, just to keep her two sisters safe while in the capitol. She's brave, he thought.

"You'll figure it out." Theon smiled to her and she smiled too, nodding softly. "I have to go finish that hunt you ran out on. Stay strong, Stark."

Lady Lyla waved as he left, and Jaime felt bad for kissing her. She probably thought he liked her a great deal more than he did and would feel bad for breaking it off. Thoughtful girl. His attention was turned towards a padding sound coming from the entry of the stables, one of the Stark direwolves prancing into the room. It was Lady Lyla's, the soft brown one that he liked more than the rest. Until it started sniffing and scratching the hay he hid behind, that is.

"What is it, Rose?"

Rose? He was brought back to their conversation two nights passed, and smiled to himself.

The scratching became more persistent and then she yipped. "Rose get out of that! The stable boys will have a fit if we're mucking up their hay…"

Jaime looked up from where he was slumped against the wall and sighed in relief as her voice faded and she was gone. But now he had more to think about. More to mull over. Maybe he should go through with the marriage to keep her with her family? The younger Stark girls, they needed a mother's guidance, and Lady Lyla was the closest thing to that, seeing as Cersei wouldn't help them. She'd probably just use the Tully looking one- Lady Sansa was it? To her advantage, since she and Joffrey were to be betrothed.

He stood and shook out the hay that clung to his crimson lined cloak, clearing his throat and leaving the stables. Tyrion will know what to do.

"I have no idea." Tyrion shrugged and sipped on some wine.

"Come on, Tyrion, give me advice, tell me what to do."

"You're the older one. I should ask you for advice."

"About what?"

Tyrion shrugged again. "What color of hair should my whore have tonight? Brown? Red? Maybe a wench with a crown of golden locks."

Jaime's jaw tightened. "I'm serious, Tyrion."

"What do you think of her?"

"What?"

"Tell me what you think of her. The Stark girl. Lyla is it?"

Jaime considered it for a moment, weighing his words in his mind. "I think she's comely. Nice."

Tyrion raised a brow. "Comely? Nice? Come now, brother, dig deep. Cersei's not here to swat you."

He flinched. His sister would throw a fit, then throw objects, and in the heat of it all, throw herself at him. The prospect of it made him grin with passion once, but now? He didn't know what to make of it. "She's pretty." Jaime took a swig of ale and sighed. "But she's not like us. She wouldn't know what to do as a Lady of the Rock."

"But her smile would make it all worth it, do you not think so, brother?" Yes, she did have a beautiful smile- one that wasn't only on her lips like Cersei, one that traveled to her eyes and her cheeks, one from her heart.

Jaime nodded and drank more ale. "I was in the stables and heard her speaking with the Greyjoy ward. She said she would marry- well consider marrying me- to keep her sisters safe in the capitol. That her father will only let her go with them if she's to be my bride."

"Shame about her brother, don't you think?" Tyrion raised a brow and Jaime shuddered, looking away. "Why don't you go make amends with the Stark girl for kissing her like an idiot and give her your sincerest of apologies about her brother's fall, and then maybe you'll think of something on your own."

He considered it for a moment and then shrugged. "What would I do? Send her flowers?"

"If that's what it took. Why not, just this once, you try and be that knight you always wanted to be? You might like each other a lot more by the end of it. Would you like me to do the honors?" When Jaime said nothing, only stuck his nose into the cup of ale again, Tyrion called, "Pod!"

A short black haired boy came running in and blinked his big moon eyes. "Yes, my lord?"

"Send the Lady Lyla Stark a bushel of flowers-"

"Roses. Send her roses. She'll know they're from me."

Pod shifted uncomfortably. "My lord, we don't have roses."

Jaime frowned. "Pod, you're a smart boy, are you not?"

Pod shrugged.

"Well, if you're truly so brilliant, you might think to go buy some roses." Jaime tossed him a small sack of gold, enough to buy a hundred thousand roses if he so pleased, and raised a brow when the boy didn't move. "What are you waiting for? Go."

Tyrion laughed, amused, and shook his head, curly golden ringlets swaying. "Almost sounded like Robert commanding Lancel."

"I don't want to be like Robert. I'm not like him."

"No, but I can't say you're much better."

Jaime narrowed his eyes. "I don't hit women, I father no bastards, I force no marriages betwixt people that don't know each other."

"Because you're not in power to do so. If Eddard Stark hadn't kicked your golden arse off that throne the day they sacked King's Landing, then you'd be doing all that and more."

There was a silence between them that was drawn and thick, and about an hour later, Pod came back with what looked like a hundred roses bundled in his arms. They were a powdery blue, rather the red and yellow he was accustomed to seeing. He hurried across the room and handed Jaime the little bag that felt just as heavy as he remembered, and cleared his throat.

"What shall I do with them, my lord?"

Jaime placed the bag on the table that spaced between his and Tyrion's chairs and took a sip of ale. "I want you to give them to one of the Stark household maids and tell her to put them in Lady Lyla's courters."

Pod nodded and made to scurry off, but Jaime called him back. "Send a message for me as well, have the maid ask if that," He gestured to the roses, "is enough for her forgiveness."

The squire nodded again and off he went.

"Forgiveness for what, exactly?" Tyrion asked, looking quire perplexed.

Jaime only smirked that devious smirk of his, recalling the feast with fondness.

"You're not forgiven," Lyla warned, though he caught her lips tugging into a smile.

"I suppose if I'm to stay here for so long, I might as well get on your good side." Jaime sighed lightly. "And I guess asking for forgiveness won't do?"

She had shaken her head then, but what would she do now, that pretty little rose, with a hundred of her own roses placed strategically throughout her room? Jaime could only hope, wait, and see.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Lyla sat at the edge of the pond that pooled only a short distance from the weirwood trees, rolling a rose petal between her right thumb and index finger, looking at her reflection.

It had only been a week since she found the roses in her room, spread out on her bed and making the whole west wing of the castle smell like Highgarden. There must have been a hundred roses, if not two, and a maid was waiting by the door to ask if the roses were enough for her forgiveness.

"Who are these from?" Lyla asked, then blinked away shock when the maid told her that Ser Jaime Lannister sent them.

In the duration of the week that Lyla spent hiding from Ser Jaime so that she didn't have to answer him, she found herself retreating to the weirwood trees more often than not, lost in her mind for as long as the day permitted.

And that's where she found herself that morning, sitting there, looking at herself absentmindedly and rolling rose petals between her fingers until they were stained red and the sun reached its peak, marking the midday.

If I marry him, I'll have to leave everyone behind, she thought, I'll have to move to the South and be the Lady of Casterly Rock. She recalled the night of the feast then, how she told him she was not quite a lady, and frowned. She didn't want to be a lady of anything but Winterfell. Maybe he'll buy me Winterfell with all his Lannister gold, she mused, letting her lips curve up from the frown.

While she wanted to marry one day, and have a family, Lyla always thought she'd be doing it for love, not because a king commanded it of her. What a strange request of your eldest friend. To marry his oldest daughter off to a man you hate… A strange request indeed.

The king hated Ser Jaime. He called him Kingslayer more oft than not, and she never failed to see the lion shiver at the sound of it. She less and less thought him malicious for killing King Aerys. Someone would have to- if not Ser Jaime then perhaps some other knight.

Maybe it would be nice for Ser Jaime, she thought softly, if he had a wife that didn't look at him as though he were a monster like everyone else does. Even her own lady mother took fault in that, looking at Jaime as though he had murdered her father, but in reality, he killed the man that burned and strangled her first betrothed and her husband's father. She should not look at him as though he were a savage.

There were other things weighing in her mind as well, like how Ser Jaime had found Bran in the first place, and why he kissed her even though he was probably well aware of why she was so distraught. Those thoughts were the ones she'd been most curious about, and the ones that she'd dreaded to venture too far into.

It was just a kiss, she told herself, just a silly kiss from a silly lion to a silly wolf. It was her first kiss, and she found herself too scared to do anything, too in shock to react in any way other than to push, slap, and run.

But as she ventured through those thoughts, she found herself daydreaming of the kiss; how his warm, soft lips barely graced hers, moving softly and nervously and tasting of something sugary that she simply couldn't place. Was it of cakes or berries or maple? No, it was none of those, but Lyla figured it didn't matter as she stood and brushed off her skirts to return to Winterfell. It would never happen again.

She'd been in Winterfell only five seconds and Rickon had already sprinted passed the training yard, through Robb's legs, around Theon's, and leaped at her, wrapping his chubby arms around her neck and panting into her hair. Lyla had been taken so off guard that all she could register for a moment that someone had just jumped at her.

After taking a moment to cross her arms around his waist and hold him at her hip, she raised a brow to him, "Is something the matter, little wolf?"

He nodded and looked down, fingering her hair, tugging at it and rolling it between his fingers. "Mother won't come out."

Lyla sighed. Lady Catelyn Stark hadn't moved an inch since Bran fell, even though Maester Luwin himself tended to him and assured the whole family, save Catelyn, over supper two nights passed that the worst was over, and he would live. Still, even though Rickon needed Catelyn, she didn't move. She was stone beside Bran's bed, weaving something awfully large and wicker, every once in a while letting out an exhausted sigh or a wave of silent tears. Lyla might have been more understanding about it, if Rickon hadn't been coming to her for everything the way he did their mother.

"Mother's just tired is all," Robb's voice sounded softly and he plucked Rickon from her arms, kissing the thick Tully red ringlets that were so much like his own. "I'll take you out riding, how about that?"

Lyla mouthed her brother a thank you, waving to Rickon who swung his arms in the air to her over Robb's shoulder, grinning with a brimming excitement for being able to ride the pony she'd brought him back from her last visit with the Tyrells.

Willas had given her the pony to take to Rickon as a late nameday gift, but since the little wolf was too young to ride for Lady Catelyn's comfort, the pony was stabled most of the time.

It was a fine pony, Lyla thought as she sat by the armory, watching Robb and Rickon ride around each other on the field across from her. It was a little mare, all brown with a thick, winterbred mane of black that curled just like Rickon's own wild mane of red. She laughed as their mounts bumped one another, not expecting the hand that suddenly rested on her shoulder.

"You look just like your aunt when you laugh like that." She looked up and her eyes widened slightly at the man. It was King Robert in all his gold and black and green glory, smiling at her sadly through a thick black beard and a pair of sad blue eyes.

Lyla flashed him a courteous smile and dipped her head. "Thank you, your grace."

King Robert stood beside her and examined her face with an arched brow. "If it weren't for those eyes, you'd be her ghost. I swear it by the Seven."

"You think so, your grace?" Lyla had never met her aunt Lyanna, being as she died before she was born, but was often told of her fine features and striking beauty that only a true northern woman could possess. She then recalled of the affection that Robert had for Lyanna and frowned. The poor man must miss her terribly, she thought. He could never love a woman the way he loved Lyla's aunt. Well, that was what everyone said at least. Not even the queen had his heart. "If your grace would rather not-"

"Spare me the titles, girl. Bad enough I hear them so often from this little shit." Robert tossed his head in the direction of a very boy, with long sandy hair and those deep green eyes- eyes that made Lyla think of Jaime. He must be a Lannister.

"Your grace- er, Robert, might I ask you a question?"

The king shrugged and nodded, holding his hand out while the Lannister boy handed him a chalice and began to pour wine. The boy's eyes were on her the whole time and he almost spilled, had she not raised a brow at the pitcher. "Lancel, you bloody idiot! If you spill one drop if that Dornish red I'll have you-"

"Your grace, uh, Robert." She didn't want to see Lancel's face get any redder from the embarrassment. When the king sighed and chugged what was in the cup he gave her his attention. "I wanted to ask why you made a match betwixt Ser Jaime and me."

She must have come off bolder than her ears made her believe, and King Robert's brow arched. "Between you and I, girl, binding the North and South is the only way these bloody kingdoms will ever see peace."

"But Sansa and the Prince Joffrey are to be married- is that not binding enough?"

"To be frank girl, no. One marriage won't be enough."

"Sansa will be queen one day though, alongside the Prince being king. Won't a match of royalty be enough to subside the feud?"

"No -"

"Why can Robb not marry the Princess Myrcella or my sister Arya the Prince Tommen? I ask you, my king, Your Grace, why must I marry Ser Jaime?"

She was acting terribly improper but the questions kept coming, like vomit, the type that couldn't just be swallowed down, but shot out, leaving her mouth tasting like acid.

King Robert looked slightly taken aback. "Always questioning," he commented. It was all he said for a long while, staring into her eyes- no, into her soul. Peering into the depths of her character and spirit. He only snapped out of it when the sound of Robb falling from his courser into a mud patch thundered through the courtyard, bringing him back from the voids, and he blinked, looking away. "I told Ned that if you didn't want to marry the Kingslayer, you didn't have to. Don't want to force you into it the way your aunt was forced from her very bed-"

Lyla rested a hand on his shoulder softly and gave him a weak smile before rising, before making up her mind for good. "You ride for Kings Landing in a matter of days, and… so shall I. For my sisters, I will do this. For the sake of keeping them safe, and if I have your word that they indeed will be safe, and the rest of my family too, I'll marry Ser Jaime. In order to bring peace to the Realm and ease your rule over the Kingdoms."

It was for sweet, soft Sansa who Lyla didn't pay enough attention to. It was for fiery, fierce Arya who needed more guidance than their father could ever give her. It was for her whole family that she agreed to it, for their security and safety. For their guaranteed protection. But most of all it was because somewhere in the depths of her soul, where the king was searching just moments ago, she felt like something bad was going to happen in the south. That once she, her father, and her sisters left Winterfell, they would need all the protection they could get.

But she shrugged away the chilling thoughts, and blinked back into the present, where the king had wrapped her into a warm hug, muttering something about a welcome to the family.

He smelled of ale and wine and whores, but there was something about his heat that reminded her of her father, and she embraced him back before pulling away and curtsying as he nodded to her and took his leave, waving the Lannister boy away as he went.

"So, you're to be my goodcousin?" said the boy called Lancel, who immediately flocked to her once the king had gone off on his own in the direction of her father's solar, no doubt to tell him of her choice.

Lyla hesitated, then replied with a halfhearted, "yes."

She turned her focus to her brothers, who were now caked in mud and rolling around wrestling. It made her laugh more sincerely than she had in over a week, sparing a quick glance to Lancel as he stood beside her. The boys sauntered off and then it was just Lyla and Lancel, making her shift uncomfortably.

"My sweet cousin the queen will be sad to see her brother leave for Casterly Rock once the time comes. They are very close, you know."

She narrowed her eyes and looked at him directly then. "Is there something you're trying to get at?"

He shrugged and leaned into his seat as she sat up. "He's very old, you know." Lancel commented after a long silence between them grew nearly as awkward as his lanky structure.

"I'm aware of Ser Jaime's age. I could do a deal worse in age for a husband."

Lancel slipped his hand on hers for a moment, gripping it before she could pull it away. He leaned into her, mouth almost on her ear, "I want you, sweet northern girl. Should my cousin find trouble in keeping you tame, I'll not hesitate to claim you. I'll break you and make you beg for me, make you think of me when you're with your husband, I'll-"

Lyla could hardly see what was happening before her, it was such a menacing blur. There was a thick sounding thud and something, or rather, someone, fell. She had to blink rapidly to focus in on Lancel, who was on the ground with blood dripping from his newly torn lip and a cut that traced from the corner of his mouth to at least an inch further up his cheek. Looking up to who had hit him, she felt an odd flush of relief.

Ser Jaime was standing over his cousin, fist pulled back as though he would hit him again. "Do not think that our relations will mean a thing to me the next time I see you abusing this lady, or any other. Run to your master, Lancel, before I teach you what it means to hear me roar."

The words seemed to come so easily from him, and Lyla's eyes raked over him for the first time in a week. "Your hand…" she whispered, taking his right hand from its stance in the air in her two hands and looking it over. There was skin peeling from his knuckles, no doubt from Lancel's teeth, and there were a few other nicks that were bleeding, though not so much as Lancel was as he sneered and ran off.

She quickly remembered the wine pitcher Lancel had with him and picked it up from the ground, looking into Jaime's eyes for a moment. "This is going to sting." He nodded and his left hand gripped the nearest object- the fence around the paddock- and she poured.

He barely winced, and she quickly tore the hem of her underskirt, which was fresh washed and clean, and began wrapping his knuckles. She hadn't realized how scared she was until she tried to tie it off, and noticed how violently her hands were shaking.

When she finally managed to tie it, Jaime bent down and looked her in the eyes. "Are you alright?" Lyla nodded, but he could see right through her mask. "What did he say to you? Did he hurt you?"

Her eyes immediately lowered and she shrugged away the absolutely revolting dirty felling that was growing in the pit of her stomach. "He… He said a lot of things."

Jaime grabbed her wrists, firmly but not painfully tight, and stared at her until she looked in his eyes. "Tell me what he said. Don't lie."

Lyla should have been shocked at the extent he acted like he cared for her, but it only made her feel safe, for some reason. "He said he'd claim me… and break me… And make me beg for him and think of him when I was with… When I was with…"

"Your husband?"

She nodded. For some reason husband just couldn't come out of her mouth, like her tongue twisted on the word.

"He touched you." Jaime was looking at her hand, which had soft red spots where the little monster's fingers dug into her skin. She wanted to throw up at the memory of it all. "I should have taught him more of a lesson."

Lyla gasped and gripped his arm with her small hands when he stood before he could start off in the direction Lancel ran off in. "Don't be rash!"

Jaime looked fierce, angry in a way that scared her and excited her. After looking at her for a few seconds his face softened. "You never said if I was forgiven or not. Were you avoiding me?"

"Yes," she admitted, looking down. His fingers tugged at the under part of her chin and pulled her face back to look at him again.

"Don't look away from me."

Lyla took in every strand of his golden lion's mane, of his starling eyes, of that damn smirk that wormed its way back to his lips. "Okay," she murmured. He let her go then, and her wrists felt icy cold as soon as his hands retreated.

"Lyla!"

They both turned to where a distant voice sounded her name, where Lord Eddard was standing in the doorway of the entrance to one of the castle halls. He didn't look pleased.

"I have to go." Lyla rushed, lifting up her skirts and hurrying off just as Ser Jaime called a "goodbye," after her.

"You're sure about this?"

"I'm positive."

"Nobody is putting you up to it?"

Lyla shook her head and sighed. "Father, I've made my decision. I'm going with you."

"And you know the cost of it? The price you have to pay in order to come?"

"The Lannister price."

Lord Eddard flinched slightly, but recovered quickly, cupping her pale cheek with his hand. It was warm and gentle, and she leaned in to it. "If you change your mind at any point, you just tell me, okay? I swear it'll be called off the moment you don't want to do it anymore."

Lyla gave her father a light smile and kissed his cheek before rising. "I'm a Stark, a wolf. I can handle myself." It was a lie. If she could handle herself she would have been able to stop Lancel Lannister's advances, but she couldn't, she froze. If Ser Jaime wasn't there… She didn't want to know what would have happened.

"And the Kingslayer… Are you sure you don't want anyone younger? Maybe the Lannister boy that squires for Robert… Lanley?"

Lyla gulped roughly. "Lancel…?"

Eddard nodded. "That's the one. Maybe he would-"

"No. He… Father I have to tell you something…"

Lord Eddard raised a brow, a sign for her to continue, but there was a knock on the door just as she opened her mouth.

"Lord Stark, the king requires your presence." It was Jory, who smiled to Lyla and waited as Lord Eddard gave her an apologetic look, told her they'd talk later, and took his leave. Lyla was right behind him.

Baths were always too warm for Lyla, but now it wasn't hot enough, as she tried scrubbing Lancel's breath off her ear and neck, his twisted grip from her wrist. She felt dirty and scared of ever being remotely close to him ever again. She scrubbed and scrubbed, finally giving up when her skin turned pink and splotchy from how rough she was with the sponge.

She sighed, whistling for her direwolf Rose, who ran in from her room and yipped, dragging a robe along with her. "Give me that, silly wolf," Lyla murmured, kissing her pet between the ears before rising from the tub and patting herself dry with a towel and wrapping the robe around her.

It was cold as she stepped out of the tub, and normally she loved it, let it envelope her and caress her as she sat by her window, but tonight she was melancholy and frightened that Lancel might steal into her chambers and-

No, she thought firmly, I mustn't think that way. Ser Jaime didn't let anything happen. She smiled lightly, barely, remembering how Lancel's face twisted darkly as he scurried off, bloodied and beaten.

As she curl up on her bed with Rose, who was under Sansa's watchful eye that day due to Lyla's dire need of a break from mothering both her wolf and Rickon, Lyla wondered if Ser Jaime knew about her acceptance of the engagement and that's why he got so defensive of her. Or maybe because it was his last chance to make up for the vows he thought he broke in killing the Mad King before he was taken from the Kingsguard. She sighed as her wolf curled over her lap, a dark, dreamless slumber claiming her before she could even finish her thoughts.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Lyla couldn't move, couldn't breathe, only feel where her skin was burning from his touch. "I'll make you beg for me." He whispered huskily into her ear. "You'll be screaming my name. Lancel, Lancel, Lancel." His golden hair looked more piss yellow than anything she'd ever seen and the green eyes that once reminded her of Jaime looked empty and almost black, they were so dark with a powerful lust.

"No!" she cried as he shoved her against her chair, seeing nobody around as her eyes darted, searching for someone, but finding no one. No one but Lancel, who began placing sick and feverish kisses on her neck, hands on her wrists, grasp hard and painful.

He pulled back and almost hissed his, "Shut up!" as he tore her dress and ripped his breeches off. "Now sit still!" She was about to wiggle away but his hands moved to her hips and she strained not to see him as she tried to close her knees, but his body was between them too quickly and-

Lyla woke up with a start, gasping for air as she jolted from her bed and tumbled onto the floor. Her eyes darted until her breath steadied and she was secure with the thought that she was alone in her room- aside from Rose, who lay only feet from her, head cocked to the side and one ear flopping, the other alert and pointed towards the ceiling.

"Damn nightmares," she murmured, rubbing her jaw. She could feel a bruise forming from where it smacked the edge of her bedframe. She could still feel his breath on her, feel his fingers icily wrapping around her hand and dragging her close. Ser Jaime might have stopped him from physically touching her, but who could save her from her mind? While it scared her, she knew very well why she froze the way she did.

Lady Catelyn Stark, her lady mother, was as fiercely protective of her wolf pups as Cersei Lannister was of her lion cubs. She shielded Lyla, Sansa, and Arya from any knowledge of men outside that of what she knew from her marriage to Ned, and that of what her mother told her.

"You will be married one day,"she would tell her daughters as they sewed or knitted by the window, "and your lord husband will be very good to you. I promise, you'll only know a man's soft touch."

While Sansa had soaked that thought in and relished it, Arya sneered at the thought of marriage, and Lyla simply didn't think much of it. And now, looking back, she wished she could scream at her past self, sitting so scared at the touch of a man. She wished she would have struck him like Ser Jaime had, or at least said something. But she didn't. She couldn't have.

A knock on the door allowed her escape her thoughts, and she called a quiet, "come in," as she rose from her seat beside the bed. A maid rushed in, dark grey eyes wide with panic.

"M'lady, are you alright? I heard a noise as I was passing by, and-"

Lyla raised a hand slightly as she sat on the edge of her bed and waited for her vision to regain itself from the black splotches she saw from rising too fast. When they were gone she looked to the window, where faint silvery traces of light poured onto the floor. "What time is it?" she asked, arching a brow.

"It's early, m'lady Stark. About dawn." The maid was a pretty girl, Lyla decided, as her eyes whipped back to the sound of her voice. She had a thick, not uncomely body, and long straight black hair with dark eyes. As her mind registered itself, she realized it was the same maid that King Robert was kissing the night of the feast.

She figured no time should be wasted sleeping in rather exploring the castle and the grounds, being as the next few days would be the last she would see of Winterfell in so long it pained her. She asked the maid to fetch her a dress and some smallclothes, feeling too exposed in only her thin robe, and changed behind the screen when handed a long, thin, wispy gown of silver and white embroidery. It was more of a southern style, with lace crawling from the heart shaped bust until it graced her neck. It was of Lady Catelyn's taste and it reminded Lyla all too well of her mother. The mother she hadn't seen in almost two weeks.

After tying a cloak of ivory around her shoulders, a thick one to balance out the light gown, Lyla and her direwolf, Rose, wasted no time in reaching Bran's room, where Lady Catelyn was sure to be.

"Mother?" She knocked quietly on the door, watching as a figure beside the little lordling's bed jumped, gasping.

The body turned and she could faintly trace the figure of her mother, wearing the same gown she had worn the day Bran was carried into the castle by ser Jaime. My betrothed, she thought softly.

"Mother, might I come in?" She was cautious of course, always on her guard with her mother when she was distraught. Lady Catelyn had a way of being spiteful when she was upset.

Regardless of what Lyla had been expecting, her mother nodded to a chair across from her on the other side of the bed and turned her attention to cleaning her son's face with a fresh, damp towel.

Drawing in a slight breath, Lyla watched her mother for a while before speaking. "Maester Luwin said that Bran would be okay, you know." Lady Catelyn tensed, glancing at her daughter for a split second before resuming her work. Her mother seemed so engrossed in taking care of Bran, cleaning him, working over him as though she were a silent sister preparing his corpse- it sickened Lyla almost to the point where she didn't know if she wanted to be there anymore. Almost.

"He said that Bran will recover and be healthy again soon, mother. He said that there's no need to worry. The worst is over."

Lady Catelyn exhaled sharply. "If the worst is over, why is my son still asleep?"

"I…" She had no idea, and was scared of telling her mother that, in fear of her reaction. "Maester Luwin said it was so he could recover in peace. So that he wouldn't have to worry about being sad when we leave for the capitol."

Her mother's eyes grew for a moment. "You're leaving with the girls?"

Lyla nodded, saying a meek, "yes," when she realized her mother's eyes were glued to Bran, and she didn't catch the movement.

"You're to marry a southerner?"

Had her mother not been told of her betrothal to Ser Jaime? Or even of the king's offer? Lyla tried to hide the surprise in her voice as she spoke. "Father hasn't told you?"

Lady Catelyn shrugged and shook her head slightly.

"I am marrying a southerner, yes." She was careful with her words, knowing fully of her mother's weariness of the Lannisters.

A look of despair drenched her mother's velvet blue eyes- her velvet blue eyes- and for a moment she thought her mother was broken, from how sad and vulnerable she looked. "I'm losing four of my children."

Lyla's dark brows slowly knit together. "Mother, only Sansa, Arya and I are leaving. Bran Rickon and Robb will be right here."

"Bran isn't here." Lady Catelyn said simply. Sadly, but simply. "He's gone. I fear he'll never return." It pained her to no end seeing her mother cry, and she forced herself to look at her brother, if only to avert her eyes from the steams of water that now ran down her mother's cheeks.

He looked thinner than she remembered him to be, cheekbones growing gaunt, hair dulling, skin paling even snowier than before, leaving the gentle brown freckles that splattered across the bridge of his nose looking ever darker and almost sickly sparse.

She bit her tongue to keep away the tears and sudden urge to run away again, looking down at her twiddling thumbs. "Mother, I know this is hard but-"

"You don't know." Lady Catelyn retorted almost menacingly slick with a hardness Lyla had never heard from her mother before. "You have no idea what it's like to lose a child."

"Mother, Bran is not lost to us-"

She tried to reason, but it went for naught when her mother's glare turned to her. Her blue eyes had never looked blacker with icy anger. "You've always been so difficult. Lighting the sept on fire, going on hunts with your father and brother… You've been so difficult. Bran, though. Bran's good. I don't see why they have to take him over-"

Lady Catelyn seemed to realize her words as soon as Lyla's eyes began to drip burning hot tears that stained her cheeks.

"Lyla, I'm sorry …" There was no need for her to continue, for Lyla had already stood, brushed a soft kiss to Bran's brow, and took her leave.

"She didn't mean it, Lya."

It was midday. The sun was roiling in the pale blue, cloudless sky, and Lyla was sitting under the deck with Robb as they watched Jon and Theon swordfight. In the heat of it all, she'd hidden below the balcony in hopes that nobody would find her, but as soon as the sun had clawed its way to its peak, Robb found her and forced the words of her earlier confrontation with Lady Catelyn to spill from her.

"Her eyes, Robb, I could see it in her eyes. She meant it."

Robb sighed and went to pat her hand, but she recoiled it quickly, mind diving into the memory of her dream and making her shudder uncomfortably. "Lyla, she's just upset about Bran. She's stressed is all."

Lyla shook her head, blank, tired eyes focused on Theon and Jon as they danced around each other in a storm of steel and iron. "She was going to say the gods should have punished me for being so difficult, and not Bran."

"She's grieving, Lyla, give her time. You know she didn't mean it."

"She's neglecting Rickon." Lyla countered, watching as little Rickon giggled by the Maester's with Arya and Sansa. "I won't be here to mother him for very much longer, Robb."

Her older brother shot her a look of confusion that melted into something she couldn't read. "So, what Theon said… it's true? You're marrying the Kingslayer?"

Lyla lifted her gaze, looking at Robb with eyes matching his own even in shape, with a slight annoyance. "He does have a name, Robb."

"Jaime Lannister, if my memory serves."

The voice came from behind them and they both turned slowly. There he was in all his golden glory, knuckles still bandaged. He was smiling, not smirking, as he looked down on Lyla with burning green eyes. "Might I have a moment alone with you, my Lady Stark?"

Robb looked at Ser Jaime with eyes as hard as Valeryian steel, and, saying nothing, rose and nodded curtly before taking his leave. His seat was quickly filled by Jaime, who fixed his eyes on the spar before them for a moment.

"I heard something about you having a bad dream. Is that what caused this?" His finger was feather light on the swollen, ugly violet bruise that had formed on her jaw, and she shrugged.

"I fell." While honest, her answer didn't seem to satisfy Ser Jaime, whose golden brow was arched.

His brow lowered when her eyes dropped and he draped an arm on the table, sinking into the cushioned chair. "I spoke with Lancel."

Lyla's eyes lifted quickly and narrowed. "What did I tell you about being rash?"

"Calm. I only told him to be careful." He looked to her and shrugged at her uncertain gaze. "I'm not one to trifle with."

"Nor am I." She sat up straighter.

"Didn't seem that way yesterday." Ser Jaime said with a frown. "You looked like you were about to be sick."

She narrowed. "I could have handled it."

"And I could have let him further his advances."

"Why didn't you?"

Ser Jaime laughed at that. "And here I thought ladies liked being rescued by knights."

Lyla held her chin higher and looked him in the eyes. "Have you forgotten? I'm not quite a lady."

"No." Amusement was slick in his voice. "You best become one fast, then, my dear. Casterly Rock doesn't take well to wildlings- even the ones from Winterfell."

His remark made her flinch and she shrunk back into her seat. She was pulled into a sadness then, eyes raking across the beauty that was her home. The cold, wonderful beauty she would have to leave behind for the hot, strange south. Her mind wandered to her mother then, born and raised a southern lady, and she fell even more a prisoner to her emotions.

"Lady Lyla?"

Her eyes rose up slowly and she blinked back the forming tears that threatened to drip at the memory of her mother's words. "Sorry. It's rather dusty down here." She gave him a slight smile as she took note of the steady concern in his eyes.

Ser Jaime ran a hand through his golden mane and for a moment, and Lyla wanted to feel it for herself, wanted to grace her fingertips over the strands to see just how silky they were- but she snapped out of it when she felt something pounce at her.

Her eyes widened and she looked down, sighing at the little one that was playing in her dark brown ringlets. "Morning Lya!"

Rickon was dressed in their House colors, grey and white, looking up at her with his big, blue moon eyes and grinning wolfishly. Lyla smiled softly, kissing his cheek. "Hello, little wolf."

Her brother grinned, his growing red locks bouncing with his shoulders. She looked to where Ser Jaime sat and noticed how amused he looked, smirking. "Rickon, this is Ser Jaime," she announced, wrinkling her nose when Rickon fisted her hair and tugged on it to lean in and get a better look at the knight.

"His hair looks like sunshine!" Rickon whispered through his giggles, bouncing on her knees. Without warning, he hopped from her lap and into Ser Jaime's, running his chubby, baby fingers through the masses of thick blonde waves.

"Rickon!" Lyla gasped, trying to grab him back, but Ser Jaime only laughed.

"It's alright," he insisted, ruffling Rickon's thick locks as he settled into his lap and watched Arya challenge Jon at a duel from where she sat with Sansa, still by the Maester's.

Lyla watched as Ser Jaime and Rickon both fixed their eyes across the yard and couldn't help but smile. They looked like a natural pair, the wolf and lion, laughing at the same times, with Ser Jaime bouncing Rickon on his knee.

While she'd been thrust into motherhood of Rickon in the past near two weeks, Lyla had to admit that she would miss him terribly, though he would probably miss her a million times more. Poor dear, she thought softly, won't have a mother to love him and kiss him goodnight. Lady Catelyn certainly wasn't going to do those things anymore, now that she devoted every second of her day to Bran, making Lyla sometimes question her mother's sanity.

Regardless, she was confident Robb would take care of him, the way Robb took care of everyone. Her big brother, Tully of look, and Stark at heart- he always made sure everyone was happy, made sure everything that could be done was done. He was a man of honor, like their father, and one of the most dutiful men she'd met, next to Jon, Theon, and of course her father. Yes, Robb would take care of Rickon, and well- he'd take care of him as well as he'd take care of Winterfell, of that she had no doubts.

"Take it back!" Lyla heard Arya cry in frustration as Jon slid from her swing with her wooden sword.

Jon looked amused, and tired from his long spar with Theon, but he'd never let Arya in on that secret. "You'll be a good, proper little lady," he coaxed as she swung at him more.

The two were laughing, the Snow- by birth, but still her brother by heart- and the Stark, as they both missed swing after swing of their thick wooden swords.

Sansa was scowling with disapproval, standing beside Theon, who was cheering on Arya. She would miss Theon something awful, she realized, watching him laugh in that oh so comforting way. Before she had even turned twelve namedays, Theon had claimed her as his, and they were so close, best of friends-more so than he was with Robb or Jon at the time- but that was years ago, and things changed as they grew older and Theon turned into a man and Lyla a woman. While she still felt they were close, she longed for the late night talks they used to share, musing about the glory days of their childhood.

In all the thoughts she'd relished in, she hadn't even noticed how Ser Jaime's hand lightly rested on her own until she was pulled from her mind by Arya thwacking Jon's shoulder with her fist.

A hot blush creeped up from her toes to her cheeks, and she swallowed it down, though didn't pull her hand back until Rickon crawled back into her lap and sprawled out sleepily. She ran her hands through his hair and hummed subconsciously as she watched Arya and Jon, barely aware of Ser Jaime's watchful green eyes on her.

"It seems you're a natural mother," he commented once Rickon was asleep and a maid came and wrapped all four years of him in her arms to carry him to bed.

Lyla raised a brow, rising to stretch her arms out and running her fingers through her hair. "I find it hard not to be. I do have four younger siblings, you know."

Ser Jaime smiled and stood as well. "I know. I also had a younger sibling- just one, but Tyrion was a handful."

She tried to imagine a little golden haired boy with bi-colored eyes running around and screaming with joy in the wind as Rickon did and laughed. "Hard to picture that. He seems so… mature."

"And he is," Ser Jaime offered her his arm and she hesitantly accepted it, "In fact, sometimes I think him more mature than I will ever be."

"Perhaps I should be marrying him then," she mused, laughing when Ser Jaime released a sharp gasp, the way that Theon did so often when they jested. Maybe he wasn't so much a stranger after all, she thought as they walked in the way that seemed to lead to the gardens. He japed with her as Theon did, and was protective like Robb, but even more so. He had a smirk that was all his own though, and Lyla caught herself admiring it before she looked away.

"I'd be shamed forever," -Ser Jaime laughed almost like Jon. Thick and hearty but soft- "My younger brother marrying before I."

Lyla raised a brow then. "How is it that you can marry, anyways? You're in the Kingsguard. You've taken vows."

Ser Jaime thought on it, weighing his words in his mind, and she noticed the way he furrowed his brows and his forehead wrinkled as he thought. "His grace is relieving me of my position and restoring my title as heir to Casterly Rock, where we'll live out the rest of our days- rich and happy and warm." She did not miss that he mentioned them as we and us, meaning he must have learned of her acceptance of their betrothal.

She'd heard of the Rock, studied it with Maester Luwin, but she still preferred Winterfell over anything. Winterfell was happy and warm, and what it lacked in obscene riches of gold, it made up for in riches of the land. "And I'll be the Lady of the Rock," she commented, more to herself than to Ser Jaime.

"And one day we might even have little lions," Ser Jaime mused, though his arm tightened around hers nervously at the mention of children.

Lyla rolled her eyes at that, then caught sight of Sansa and the Prince Joffrey walking with the Hound in tow. "He seems fond enough of my sister," she observed with hawk-like eyes.

They strolled much too close together for her ease and Sansa was blushing too beet red for them to be speaking of trivial things. "Yes, my sister tells me the Prince is rather infatuated with the young Stark girl."

She felt a hand warm on her cheek and realized Ser Jaime was pulling her hair gently back behind her shoulder, smiling, and she smiled too, worries melting away. He seemed so calm and casual, and Lyla started to think being his lady wife wouldn't be so terrible after all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The sounds of steel clashing and someone shouting ripped Jaime from his slumber and his eyes snapped open. Instinctively, he reached for his sword and shot up, but saw no one in his room. Steel clinked again and he tilted his head as he rose and went to the window, sitting on the chair beside it and looking down.

There were two boys practicing with swords- the eldest Stark child and the Greyjoy boy. Of course, Jaime thought, then the shouting came again and he smirked. Lady Lyla.

"Come on, Robb, that was terrible!" she called from where she leaned against one of the balcony posts, arms crossed. "You're putting too much importance on the offense- remember, you must defend yourself as you fight!"

She looked so at home, so natural, so northern. Her thick brown ringlets were pulled into a loose braided bun, showing off her sleeves of thick grey fabric and snug, matching grey bodice. Her skirt gently swayed as a breeze set in, but she didn't move to wrap the ghastly heavy looking cloak tighter around her shoulders, almost like the cold didn't bother her. Her velvety blue eyes swung to and fro as she intently watched her brother and their father's ward practice.

"Theon if you don't charge him at least keep your sword in your hand!" she shouted, and Jaime's eyes flickered to where Robb stood triumphantly over the dark haired boy, smiling a smile that looked so much like his sister's.

Theon spat and glared at Lyla as he retreated to pick up his sword, which had skidded a few feet from the edge of the fence. "Why don't you have a go, my lady, if you're so intent on telling us men what to do."

Lady Lyla snorted and ripped the sword from his hand as he held it out to her, "Men? More like green boys." He could tell she was jesting from the challenging smile that curled on her lips, and Theon grinned, taking her place in leaning against the post while she went to Robb.

The Stark boy looked nervous and at first he shook his head, as if not wanting to spar with his sister, but she swung at him and he grinned as he ducked away from the blow. "Septa would have a heart attack," he commented, thrusting his sword forward.

She only missed it by a few inches and Jaime's breathing hitched- but he exhaled when she successfully spun away. She was lithe and rather lacking in height, so easily she dodged swing after swing. Eventually her braided bun fell and as a slight breeze picked up it untwisted and tumbled to past her elbows. "I stopped listening to Septa when I was five," Lady Lyla reminded her brother through her ducks and spins around his sword before slapping the back of his unguarded thigh with the flat of her blade.

I might just have to spar with her, Jaime mused. He was becoming engrossed in watching her move. It was like an art, sword fighting, a dance that took great effort from a man; yet there she was, a small woman with northern blood and summer blue eyes, dancing with the steel as though she'd been doing it her whole life.

Only the sound of his door opening was enough for Jaime to rip his eyes from the eldest Stark children as they swung at each other. "Jaime? Are you awake?"

He could tell it was Cersei before she even finished saying his name. "Yes," he replied, turning and smiling at her. She was a vision, as always, with her summer-silk dress of pearl and light, thin cloak around her shoulders. Her hair, though, was wrapped and piled atop her head with braids and curls, two strands loose around her neck. It reminded Jaime of a bird's nest, and his nose wrinkled.

"I've been so neglected, brother," she murmured, nearing him after she closed and bolted the door behind her. She smelled faintly of something sour and strongly of wine.

Jaime shifted from the window after stealing a last glance at Lyla and moved to sit at the desk across the room, Cersei trailing after him. "I've work to do, sister," he muttered, shuffling through his papers, eyes landing on the letter his father had sent him.

Cersei seemed to have noticed the letter too, and snatched it before his thoughts could be collected. "He… Father approves of this? Of your match to this northern whore?"

"He needs an heir," Jaime said simply, not missing her continued nickname for Lyla. For his betrothed. Yes, of course Tywin would approve of the match- he needed a son to take over the Rock in his passing, and his father had never seen Tyrion as a son. "He wants us to be married upon our arrival to King's Landing, and to leave for Casterly Rock soon after."

She sneered. "That's preposterous. It cannot be done. Weddings take months to plan." Her eyes then glinted then. "Why aren't you fighting this harder?"

He shrugged, leaning into the chair further. "It might not be so bad."

"You would leave me for her? You've only just met her and you're already chasing after her- am I not desirable enough, brother?" She moved around the desk and slid onto his lap, leaning down and smirking, green eyes glittery as sunlight poured through his window and into her golden locks that matched his own perfectly.

She truly was a beautiful thing, his sister; big round eyes that were always seductively hooded and flowing waves of sunshine, but her stare was distant and she was, more often than not, bitter or angry. "Not here, Cersei. Not anymore."

Her once hooded eyes were now burning as though they were wildfire. "Are you spiting me for something?" she growled, jumping from his lap and smoothing her skirts.

"I'm not spiting you for anything, sister. This just cannot be as it was. I'm to be married."

"When I was to marry Robert you had no objections."

"We were young then. Barely more than children."

"And now you're trading me out for another that's younger than we were then."

Jaime stared at her for a moment. She was fuming, voice growing and getting deeper with each word. Where was the sister that would just talk with him, take simple walks with him under the rays of the sun that matched the gold of their hair, the one that he fell in love with? But still, she had a point, and he forced himself not to look towards the window. "She may be young, but she's a woman grown and will be a fine wife." Being born of the two most dutiful houses in the Westeros, there was no doubt Lyla would make a good wife, or at least a loyal one.

"A fine wife? Ha, she's nothing more than a girl. Inexperienced in life… and bed…" Cersei moved closer towards Jaime and gave him another sensual smile. "I am experienced, though."

"Cersei, please." He sighed, standing and moving to his closet to change from his heavy nightclothes. "I doubt that her being inexperienced in our marriage bed will make her a bad wife."

"Well what would make her a good wife, hm?" She folded her arms and glared, "What is it that she does to draw you in? To make you turn away from me?"

Jaime raised a brow, pulling off his over robe and slipping into a thick undershirt and vest- gold and red with lions stitched onto the ruby cloak he swung over his shoulders. "Nothing draws me in and nothing is turning me away from you, sister."

"You didn't answer my question, brother," Cersei hissed through her teeth, "What would make her a good wife?" She sat on the edge of his bed, green eyes narrow.

Jaime pulled on a pair of tan boots and matching gloves before turning and looking her over. She was angry, absurdly angry. For a second, he caught himself thinking of ripping her dress off and fucking the fury out of her, but as he imagined twisting his fingers through her golden locks, they turned brown and curled, her skin paled, and he forced himself to leave his mind before his sister's face transformed into another's. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Cersei snorted, but as she opened her mouth to retort, there was a loud smack of steel from the yard below and screams. "What was that?"

Jaime didn't wait to find out. Instead, he ran to his door and unbolted it, leaving Cersei alone in his chambers. All he could think about was Lyla, unarmored and defenseless against the smack of a sword. He turned the bend around the hall that opened to the training yard and his brother suddenly appeared.

"What's happened?" Tyrion asked, brow raised.

He spun on his heel and beckoned his brother to join him, slowing his pace so that Tyrion could keep up. "I don't know." Was all he had time to say before they reached the yard.

Theon was howling at the Stark boy to fetch a maester, curled around something. Curled around Lyla. Instinctively, Jaime knelt at her feet and growled when the Greyjoy boy tried to pull her away from him.

"Theon get off me," a voice murmured, and Jaime almost smirked when Lyla shoved herself off of him. "I'm not a babe, Theon."

Her hair was tumbling down her shoulders and she was holding her knees to her face- blood was trickling from her brow and she was shielding her arm from him. Anger sparked in Jaime when she looked up at him with her big blue eyes. "Your brother did this?"

"How did you know?"

"You're hurt." He grabbed the arm that she hid from him and pulled up her sleeve. She hissed as the fabric touched a tender spot and Jaime's eyes grew wide when they fell on a long, wide cut that reached all the way down her forearm. "The fool," he muttered to himself.

Lyla rolled her eyes and sighed. "It were only play."

Jaime looked up and leaned in closer to her, wiping blood from her temple. She was so strong, he thought as she recoiled her arm but didn't pull away from him. Cuts like that would make grown men cry, but there she sat, rolling her eyes at it as if it were nothing.

The maester didn't take long to find them, Theon glaring at Jaime who was staring at Lyla. He only moved when the maester asked it of him, and stayed close even after Theon's snide remark about her needing air.

"Can you walk, Lady Lyla? We'll need to go back to my room in order to clean and wrap this correctly." The maester was about to help her to her feet, but Jaime curled his arms behind her back and under her knees, pulling her close to his chest as he stood.

"I'll carry Lady Stark, "he affirmed. Lyla frowned.

"I can walk, Ser Jaime. My legs are fine," she told him quietly.

She smelled of rosewater and blood, and her skin was warm despite the frosty chill in the air. "I don't care," he murmured into her ear.

Rose padded behind them, staying close to Jaime's feet as they walked to the maester's solar. It was placed by the hall that lead to the yard, probably because of how often the children got hurt sword fighting, and the walk was far too short, for they were there in merely minutes, Jaime laying Lyla on an open featherbed.

She sat up, despite the maester telling her to lay down, but she accepted the cloth that he handed her.

"Bite down on it," The old man ordered, and the little wolf girl complied, sinking her teeth into the fabric. Jaime watched intently as the man grabbed a kettle from over the brazier and gave Lyla a look of question before she reached for his hand and nodded at the maester.

Liking the feel of her hand laced through his more than he expected to, he held her hand back, smiling at her as boiling wine was poured over her arm. Lyla's grip was as steel as the sword that sliced her and she flinched, but didn't cry. He respected her for not crying, but took note of the water that formed in her eyes as the maester began stitching her wound shut.

"How did this happen?" Jaime asked her, hoping talking would keep her from passing out from the pain.

She looked away. "Robb swung at me." She gestured towards the halfway stitched arm with her free hand, and Jaime wondered when her hand left his. "As you can see, I didn't dodge it fast enough. How'd you know I was practicing with my brother?"

"I guessed," he lied just as the door opened.

" Lyla!" Came a relieved voice. It was Eddard Stark, his eldest son trailing solemnly behind him. "Thank the gods… Robb said… Oh, Lya…"

Jaime went to leave, but she grabbed at his hand and smiled at her father. "I'm fine, father. Robb didn't mean to, I'm sure."

"I'm so sorry, Lya."

"I'll make sure to speak with you later, Robb," Eddard told his son over his shoulder before looking back to his daughter's arm. "So irresponsible… Didn't your mother forbid your sword fighting while the king is here?"

She looked downcast, lips pursed, and Jaime squeezed her hand. "We're leaving tomorrow, I didn't think that it would really be that big of a deal."

"All done!" The maester announced, tying a thick ribbon around her arm. "Now, young lady, you will not be using this arm and it will stay in this sling-" he wrapped a cloth around her arm and fastened the ties behind her neck, over her rich brown curls, "-until the moon becomes full again."

Lyla opened her mouth to protest, but Jaime gave her a dark look. There was no way he'd let her take it off before she should. "Yes, maester." She smiled at the man as he handed her milk of the poppy and her father took Theon and Robb with him as he left, murmuring about telling her mother about this. Tyrion followed suit.

"You're very brave, you know. I'm sure it took a lot not to cry."

Lyla smiled and tried to pull her hair out from under the restraints of the sling. "I've cried to you enough, don't you think?"

"Here…" Jaime leaned in close and his hands found their way to the back of her neck, resting on her milky skin for a moment before gently tugging her hair from under the sling's strap. "I don't mind. If you want to cry, you can be assured that I can handle it."

They were close, so close, and Jaime's hands were still on her shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles on the bare skin there. They slid to her neck and traced up to her cheeks. She really is lovely, Jaime thought, staring at her in the dim candlelight. She was a beauty, a subtle beauty, but a beauty none the less. While she wasn't immediately eye-catching, the more Jaime looked at her the more he noticed the small things about her that made her such a northern rose. Her nose turned upwards just slightly, and her lips always held a curve- not a seductive curve, just a happy one. It was the little things he noticed that made him begin to compare her to his breathtaking twin, the one he came into the world with, the one he thought he loved.

While Lyla had dark brown curls and not golden, he wanted to bury his hands into the masses more than he ever had with Cersei. While her eyes were blue and not Lannister green, he still found himself lost in them.

"Thank you," she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes. Her long, thick, dark, lashes… "Ser Jaime?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Are you alright?" She looked at him, concerned.

He smiled and nodded. "It's so easy to get lost in my thoughts when I'm with you," he murmured, and her skin flushed a hot pink.

He leaned closer but then pulled away to ensure he didn't do anything foolish. "Why don't we break our fasts. I don't know about you, but I haven't eaten yet."

She smiled brilliantly and that was all the answer he needed.

The hall was near empty when they entered. Rose was sitting at Lyla's command. "She's well trained," Jaime commented, leading her to the royal table. She seemed hesitant and might have protested had he not already pulled out her chair. "Don't want my betrothed sitting uncomfortably," he hummed to her.

Lyla smiled courteously and nodded, then switched her eyes over to her direwolf. "She just listens is all. Sometimes she ends up doing things before I even ask her to… Like we're connected or something." Her voice died down by the end of it and she pushed the food that he served her around on her plate.

Jaime nodded, understanding the feeling of being connected to something more than he hoped she would ever know. "I don't like you sword fighting," he said after a while, eyes locking on her sling.

"And why is that?" she asked, raising a brow.

"I don't want you hurt."

Just as she opened her mouth to answer, they heard a girlish gasp and turned to see the younger Stark girl, gossiping with a plain brown haired girl. She excused herself from her friend and ran to her sister's side.

Sansa was a pretty little thing, even Jaime couldn't deny that much, but she reminded him of his almost marriage to Lysa Tully. He'd never seen her before, Lysa, and when he finally had laid eyes on her in King's Landing, after Robert's ascent to the throne and her marriage to Jon Arryn, he decided waking up to her shrewd face every morning would have been the death of him. But Lyla? He didn't think he'd mind waking up to her nearly as much.

"Lyla, what happened, sister?" Sansa rushed, kneeling at her sister's side. "Did Arya do this?"

Lyla smiled to hide a wince when Sansa touched her arm, and Jaime tried his best not to growl at the young girl for being feather headed enough to touch the ribbons. "I'm alright, Sansa. It was just a slip of the sword while Robb and I were practicing."

Sansa frowned. "I don't see why you insist on using swords… Septa says that it's not ladylike."

"I'm not quite a lady, little sister." She looked up at Jaime and winked. "Why don't you take Rose out for a walk with Lady? I'm sure Jeyne would appreciate alone time with you before you leave."

"Didn't you hear from father? Jeyne's coming with us! Oh I'm so excited!"

Lyla gave her sister a look of something he couldn't read and they both looked at him, two pairs of Tully blue eyes against his single set of Lannister green.

"I'll leave you to your peace, but I'll talk to you later. Good day, sister, my Lord Lannister."

Sansa left quickly and Lyla laughed lightly. "I'm sorry about that. Sansa's rather excitable."

"Don't worry about it." He gave her a smirk and she looked down, smiling as she stole a couple bites of sliced fruit.

They ate their meals silently and Jaime couldn't take his eyes off of her. She moved placidly, fluidly, and he had to keep his hands busy with eating or drinking so he didn't cup her cheek or brush hair from her face. He liked being able to be gentle with someone. That was something Cersei never allowed. He couldn't help but wonder if Lyla would grow to like his being gentle with her, or if she'd want him to be rough like his twin.

"Why do you protect me so?"

The question took Jaime off guard and he noticed that her big blue eyes were staring at him curiously. "My father would be livid if my bride-to-be were hurt." He flashed a smile. "I aim to be a good husband and I'm not a fan of ladies being treated poorly, despite what others might assume."

Lyla smiled. "I hoped not."

Jaime could sit under her stare all day. He liked the way she looked at him- as though he were a man, not a monster. "Have you packed? We're leaving tomorrow."

"I'm aware." She slowly bit into a red berry and licked some of the sweet juice from the corner of her mouth. "I've been packed for a week. Have you enjoyed your stay here?"

Jaime nodded. In all honesty, he had rather enjoyed the north and all of its rough inhabitants, but he missed the southern warmth sorely. "I have. It'll be nice to be home again, though."

"In King's Landing or Casterly Rock?"

"King's Landing is where I've spent more of my time, so I guess I meant there. Casterly Rock does sound comforting though. You know, when I was a boy, Tyrion and I would jump from the ledge of the Rock into the Sunset Sea. You'll love the Sunset Sea well. My sister did. The servants told me my mother did too. My mother loved anything beautiful. My father built her a garden just for lonesome, when they were younger."

Jaime started losing himself in thought. In thought of his mother. He missed her, missed being touched softly and being sung to sleep. Suddenly he felt a warmth on the hand he didn't know fell from his fork and looked up to see Lyla staring at him sadly, her fingers intertwined in his.

"I'm sorry. I know you lost your mother…" She gave his hand a squeeze and smiled. "If you ever want to talk about her, I'll be here to listen."

He raised a brow. "Just listen, not say a word?"

She nodded, and he watched in amazement as her thick brown curls bounced so freely. "I wouldn't say a word unless you asked me to."

He smiled and reached a hand out to cup her cheek. For a moment, he thought she was going to flinch away, but her smile widened and she leaned into it for a moment before releasing his hand and pulling the one on her cheek away softly.

"We're in public," Lyla whispered as she noticed the confusion in his eyes, patting his hand before pushing her chair out and rising.

"I could have done that for you," Jaime chuckled. He got up after her, smiling as she looped her arm through his.

She rolled her eyes at him playfully and whistled for Rose, who bounded towards them and jumped on Lyla. She winced and Jaime looked at the direwolf sternly. "She's in no condition for that, little wolf."

Rose cocked her head and panted, then looked to Lyla, licked her right hand- careful of her arm- and moved to stand faithfully at her master's side, almost like she understood him.

"She just listens is all. Sometimes she ends up doing things before I even ask her to… Like we're connected or something."

Her voice rang through his mind and he stared at the wolf until Lyla began walking. Maybe it was true. Maybe the wolves were smarter than given credit for- Lyla certainly was smarter that she was given credit for. They only get smarter with time, he thought as they made their way to the courtyard, by where they were conditioning the horses.

Theon and Jon gave her chokingly curious glances from where they stood in the training yard, and she only smiled at them. "Heavens," she jested lightly, "how scandalous that a woman and her betrothed are taking a walk together."

Jaime smiled down at her and she laughed, Rose yipping. "Well, it is when the woman's betrothed is the Kingslayer."

"Don't." Lyla took her arm from his and sighed, standing in front of him. "Ser Jaime, you shouldn't call yourself that. See how you flinch…" She lifted her left hand to his neck and pressed a finger to a spot under his jaw. "Watch -" she took in a deep breath, "- Kingslayer."

He tried to stop from flinching but he knew she felt it from where her finger was. He gulped and looked down, but she pulled his chin up with her snowy finger so he looked her in the eyes. "You must know how many men would have killed the king if they'd had the chance you had. He would have died, regardless of whose hand slayed him. It makes me sad that you allow yourself such misery for doing what thousands of others might have done if you had not."

Lyla went to pull her hand away but he caught it and stared at her for a dangerously long time. No one had ever seen light in what he'd done, no one had ever tried to comfort him, not even Cersei; but this girl, this lovely northern woman, was giving him all the comfort he could have ever asked for from his twin.

He leaned in close to her and she quickly pushed up on her toes the rest of the way, meeting her lips with his cheek. It wasn't what he was going for, but he couldn't complain. "Thank you." Jaime murmured in her ear.

Lyla smiled. "Just don't make me regret agreeing to this."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The bath water was warm and inviting as Lyla sunk into it. It was early morning, just after dawn, but Sansa had slammed her bedroom door open and forced her awake before she had a chance to protest.

"What's it like to kiss a man?" Sansa asked from where she stood in Lyla 's main chamber, holding up her sister's dresses to her frame in front of a tall looking glass.

Lyla raised a brow, "Why do you ask, sister?" The only times she'd kissed a man were when Jaime kissed her in the field behind the training yard and the previous day, when she'd kissed his scruffy cheek. She still was in ae of how easy it was to be gentle in his presence.

"Jeyne Poole told me that you and Ser Jaime-"

"Sansa, I don't know how your beloved Jeyne finds out about those things, but they're personal and they're not for your ears." Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be and she sighed, closing her eyes as she sank further into the depths of the tub. The water was scented with fragrances that she'd brought back with her from her last trip to Highgarden; fragrances of roses and honey and something spicy she'd never been able to name.

Sansa walked into the bathing chamber and sat by the window, looking out at the rolling hills. "Aren't you excited? You're marrying a knight with golden hair, oh he's so handsome Lyla, aren't you in the least bit excited?"

Lyla laughed at her sister's voice as it grew more and more eager. "He'll be a lord, Sansa, he's not a knight. At least he won't be for much longer."

"But he was a knight- the best in the Realm!"

"I'll have to leave the capitol soon after arriving, Sansa. To leave for the Rock. Only a few moons time, I'm sure. Mayhaps father will let me take you to Casterly Rock, so you can be looked after."

Sansa shook her head, auburn curls splaying around her. "I can't leave King's Landing, I'll be Joffrey's lady and he wouldn't want me to go. We can send ravens, though, and surely Her Grace would let us visit you when you have a baby- Oh Lyla you'll have such beautiful golden babies! They'll be so pink and pretty with such beautiful hair and-"

"Are you sure that you're not talking about your own excitement to wed the crowned prince?" Lyla's eyes opened and she looked to her sister. Sansa was so beautiful- bold red curls and simply lovely blue eyes, both of which stood out intensely against her snowy pale skin. But the prince… Lyla didn't get a good vibe from him, and the way he looked at Sansa, as though she were a possession and not his betrothed, didn't help.

Sansa blushed and looked down. "Isn't he just beautiful? He's my prince and he'll be my husband and we'll have perfect yellow haired babies."

Lyla finished scrubbing her skin and lathering her hair, and was rinsing it out as Sansa continued.

"We'll be married as soon as I'm a woman grown I bet- oh that's so soon! I'm terribly excited."

She got up to help her sister out of the tub and Lyla quickly patted herself dry with a towel before slipping into a thick robe. "You sound as though you already love him, Sansa." Lyla laughed and changed into her smallclothes, Sansa handing her a far too formal gown for riding. "Have you forgotten I'm riding with the rest of them?"

Careful of her stitches, Sansa wrapped a fresh ribbon around her forearm and shrugged. "You're supposed to love you husband- and father said you can't ride anymore because of your arm." She offered the thin, wispy blue gown that would complement her eyes again.

Lyla shook her head. "I am not glass, dear sister," she replied lightly, pulling out a much more modest light grey gown with green stitching and laces. Sansa was going to argue, but Lyla raised her brow as though daring her.

Sighing in defeat, the younger Stark daughter helped her sister dress in the modest riding gown and then tied the sling over her neck, slightly tighter than was necessary. "Ow," Lyla gruffed, but Sansa only frowned.

"It would be much easier to sit in a litter than riding with your arm bouncing around."

When she replied to her sister this time, her voice was firm. "I'm riding."

"Mother will be furious."

"Mother won't be there, Sansa."

Lyla grabbed a brush, running it through her hair where she sat by the lit brazier to help it dry. Sansa was already dressed for the day, adorned in a gown of thin wools, yellow and black to show her budding alliance with Prince Joffrey Baratheon, bright curls left flowing around her shoulders aside from two tight braids atop her head that twisted together in the back. She envied her sister's beauty.

When her hair was mostly dry the curls began to scrunch up and tighten, looking fluffier than she was used to. Sansa bit her lip as she thought on how to fix it, but Lyla shook her head. "It'll fluff in the wind as I ride anyways," she insisted, her sister helping her pull tall black riding boots over her legs.

"Mayhaps you should let me braid it…"

"I'd rather not. It's only fall out when I ride."

Sansa smiled pleadingly. "But I'm good at it. Please sister, please let me!"

After a few more moments of going back and forth, Lyla surrendered to Sansa's begging and sat back in her chair as her sister twisted and plaited her unruly brown curls. She thought she would have dozed off, but her thoughts kept her vigil.

She thought Jaime Lannister. Of how when he kissed her she slapped him and ran away. He shouldn't have done it, she thought, kissed her that is. But at the same time, she was thinking of how she kissed him- on the cheek not the lips- and how he smiled at her after.

He had opened up to her, and looked almost in pain as he recalled his memories of Casterly Rock and his mother. She also remembered how he'd carried her inside after she missed her duck from Robb's slash.

He'd let her hold his hand, held it back even, and she recollected how her father stared at their interlocked fingers before he left, grumbling. She figured she should play nice with him and found herself enjoying it as they walked through the courtyard. Their walk abruptly ended after she kissed his cheek, though, when Arya came running by and pulled her away to help her hide from Septa Mordane.

"Lyla?"

She looked up to see her sister before her. She must have finished the braid. How long had she been lost in thought? "Yes, Sansa?"

"Did Ser Jaime kiss you?" It was an odd question, and Lyla raised a brow.

"Why do you ask?"

Her sister shuffled nervously. "I think Prince Joffrey might want to…"

Lyla narrowed her eyes. "You won't let him, Sansa." It was more of a command than anything else, and her little sister shrunk, nodding. Then she sighed at Sansa's saddened expression, and was reminded of her earlier question. "Yes, he did kiss me," Lyla admitted, laughing when Sansa squeaked.

"Oh really? Was it wonderful? Was it passionate? Septa said that lords and their lady wives should always share kisses- to show their love."

"We're not married yet, little sister." Lyla shook her head with a smile and stood, inspecting the plait in the looking glass. It was fine work, tight but not painful. "It was quick. Nothing to sing about."

Sansa looked sad. "What if my first kiss with Joffrey is nothing to sing about?"

Lyla raised a brow. "Your first kiss with Joffrey won't be until your wedding day, I hope."

"Of course!" Her sister blushed beet red and looked over to the window. "We should go to the main hall and break our fasts before we have to say our goodbyes."

It was almost like a feast- the tables were full of meats and bread and fancy wines and, to Sansa's excitement, cakes. Even the lemon kind she loved so much. They sat with what members of their family were awake; Robb, Jon, and Arya. Lord Eddard sat beside Lyla not long after she filled her plate.

"How's your arm?" asked Robb with soft eyes.

Lyla smiled. "Fine. Robb, it's not your fault. I should have been wearing armor."

"Like they'd ever make armor for a woman," Theon muttered, sipping on a cup of wine.

"Isn't it a bit early for you to drink, Greyjoy?" Jon smiled triumphantly when Lord Eddard raised a brow at the chalice, nodding in agreement to his son.

"Lyla," Lord Eddard turned slightly to face her, noticing the riding gown. "I don't want you riding. Your arm is hurt enough as it is and I'll not have it."

Lyla's brows rose. "I've broken my leg before and still rode the very next day!"

"This is different- you'll not be riding with northerners who will help you if you fall. We'll be surrounded by men from the south, and they'll not take it kindly when they see a highborn lady trying to ride with them and asking for assistance."

"I don't see why it matters… Father, I'm better in the saddle than any of them! Besides, Willas Tyrell picked out Morrow especially for me, it's not like I'm riding a simple-minded lame stallion."

"Lyla your arm-"

"Father, I'm not a little girl, don't worry about me. I'll be fine on Morrow and I won't say a word the whole trip."

Lord Eddard regarded her for a moment before letting out a long, exasperated sigh. "We're riding out as soon as the King has woken up and broken his fast. If you're to ride with us, I'll not hear a complaint from you the whole way or you'll be sent back to Winterfell."

Lyla beamed and kissed her father's cheek before he rose and took his leave.

"I expect you to say goodbye to your mother when you go to Bran."

Her smile fell. "Yes, father."

She wasn't looking forward to seeing her mother, not after she'd been told of her mother's wishes that it was her who fell and not Bran. She didn't even think she'd say goodbye to Bran in fear of seeing Catelyn, but she pushed those ideas away days ago.

Theon noticed the frown on her lips and tried to give her a light smile. "Would you like an escort, my lady?"

She nodded softly, rising and taking his arm when he offered it. She'd lost whatever apatite she had.

"Theon, I don't know what I'm going to do without you," Lyla whispered as they walked through the hall to Bran's room.

Theon smiled down at her. "I always thought we'd get married, you know."

"I know. I did too." It wasn't a lie. She always had a soft spot for Theon- he was handsome and always kind to her. As they grew up together her father and mother even suggested the match, but it never ended up happening.

"I'm going to miss you, Stark," Theon murmured as they slowly stopped walking, turning to face one another. "I wish that it was us marrying. That way you could stay here. Stay home."

While not a Stark, Winterfell was more home to Theon than the Iron Islands, and Lyla always liked how he regarded it as such. "Your father would never allow it. That's probably why we aren't engaged right now." She laughed lightly and then frowned. "Theon, this won't be the last time we speak will it?"

"Of course not, we've got all day."

"Theon I'm serious."

He sighed and shrugged. "I'll write if you do."

"Of course I'll write." Lyla let a smile play on her lips. She wouldn't be without him forever, she knew, but it would still be hard. Theon was a good friend, and she'd seen him every single day, aside from her trips to Riverrun or Highgarden, since she was a girl. It would be a tough to be parted from him.

Or perhaps it was not her brotherly love for Theon that wearied her, but the fact that she was being pulled from her home. This was my choice, she reminded herself quickly. I wanted this.

They began walking again then, and reached Bran's chamber all too soon. Lyla looked to Theon and he smiled reassuringly before she stepped inside.

The atmosphere was thick and smelled faintly of mildew, and the floorboards creaked under her feet as she went to her little brother's bedside. "Hello Bran," she whispered, her voice cracking more than she was expecting. "I'm going to King's Landing with Sansa and Arya, you know. I'm going to come back and see you as soon as I can, I promise."

She ran her left hand through his thick hair and felt tears prickling in her eyes. It didn't seem so long ago that she was helping him practice his swordsman skills, telling him he was kind and brave and would be a great warrior one day. "I'll miss you so much, Bran… I'm so sorry that I haven't visited more, I know I should have but…"

Tears were falling then and she kissed her brother's brow. "I'll come see you as soon as you wake up." It was hard for her, talking to him without him answering. "I'll bring you presents and a sword and…" She heard a floorboard creak and looked up.

Her mother had changed into a soft green dress with long sleeves and a loose skirt. Blood red curls spiraled all around her shoulders to her elbows and she looked to have bathed. "So it's true," Lady Catelyn whispered, staring at the sling around her arm that was still much too tight.

"It's nothing really, only a scratch." Lyla gave her mother a weak smile and winced in pain when Bran's direwolf, who had been sitting loyally at his owner's side, nudged it with curiosity.

Lady Catelyn stepped closer to her and frowned. "You're leaving today." When Lyla said nothing, only nodded, she continued. "I know you're marrying the Kingslayer."

Lyla raised a brow. "Father told you?"

"No, I saw you yesterday from the window." Oh. Lyla forgot that Bran and Arya's windows both faced the courtyard. "There's still time to back out, Lyla. You can still say no."

"I'm already packed. It's decided."

"I can find you a better husband. One that's honest and will be good to you. Theon is-"

"Mother, that match is impossible. I'm marrying Ser Jaime at the King's command."

There was an eerie silence before Lady Catelyn spoke again. "The Lannisters are not trustworthy. He broke his vows to protect the King…"

"Mother, if it were not Ser Jaime it would have been another." Lyla frowned at her mother's sudden ager.

Lady Catelyn was glaring at her then and growled, "I want you to leave."

And so she did, without a second thought.

The sun was fully in the sky by the time she and Theon came back from Bran's chamber to the main hall. It was much fuller and the royal table was packed with the queen, the royal children, and King Robert. Lancel gave Lyla a conspicuous glare until a hand reached her shoulder and he looked away.

"Shame he did not learn to respect you the first time I talked to him."

She did not have to turn her head to confirm who it was; she'd recognized his voice. "My mother found out about our betrothal," Lyla whispered to him as Theon growled and stalked away to join Robb and Jon. Rickon was being bounced on Septa's lap, but as soon as his eyes caught Lyla's he yipped in excitement and ran over to her. She smiled and winced when he jumped up on her, crying out in pain as he tried to climb onto her right arm.

Ser Jaime pulled Rickon from her, green eyes worried. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." She sighed and Rickon looked up at her apologetically.

"I'm sorry Lya…" he muttered, burying his face in her skirts and hugging her legs.

Lyla kneeled down and did her best to pick him up with her left arm, allowing him a few moments to get comfortable on her hip with her arm around him after she straightened up. "It's alright, little wolf. You did not know."

"What did your mother have to say about our betrothal?" Ser Jaime asked as he led Lyla to a table that didn't have Starks, Lannisters, or Baratheons crowding it. Respectfully, he sat across from her, and Rickon slid into her lap as she sat, gobbling up milk as soon as they were seated.

Lyla shrugged, sipping some milk herself. "A lot."

"Lyla…"

"She said Lannisters are untrustworthy and begged me to find a way out of the betrothal before she commanded me to leave," Lyla replied before biting into a thick slice of honeyed bread. Her mother's words had stung her. I want you to leave, I want you to leave, I want you to leave. It kept replaying in her mind and she looked down, sighing. "She hates me."

Jaime reached his hand to her left forearm and shook his head. "Lyla, your mother doesn't hate you. She hates me probably, but not you. You're her daughter."

"She told me she'd rather I fell, not Bran."

He winced and she raised a brow. She'd only ever seen him wince when he was called Kingslayer. His hand retreated and Lyla cradled Rickon closer. "She's grieving for her son. My sister went through the same. She had a boy before- it was her first child. He looked just like Robert. Black hair and big blue eyes. He was strong, but too young to fight off the fever. Oh she cried and kicked and screamed, even Robert beat his hands bloody on the wall, but the boy…"

Lyla looked to where the queen sat and frowned. The poor queen. She didn't have love in her marriage, she lost her first child, and she looked so unhappy- not in the fake smile she pulled on her lips for the Princess Myrcella who asked her a question, but in her eyes. Jaime's exact color.

She turned to look at Jaime then and he looked more lost in thought than she'd ever seen. She couldn't help but think of what Sansa was talking about that morning, Oh he's so handsome Lyla, aren't you in the least bit excited? He was handsome, she had to admit. His golden hair waved slightly and his green eyes were like fields, but she didn't know if she was excited about the prospect of marrying him. She'd have to stay out of trouble and be a prim, proper young lady. Lyla was about to snap him out of his trance but the king's voice boomed over the hall.

"Alright, let's get riding before I piss myself!"

Queen Cersei rolled her eyes and ushered the princess and princes to the litter, Septa doing the same with Sansa and Arya. Lyla looked down at Rickon, who looked back up at her with a frown.

"Do you have to go now, Lya?"

She nodded and hugged him as tight as she could with her one free arm. "Yes, little wolf, I have to go now."

Rickon's eyes immediately filled with water and he clung to her as she stood. Robb made his way to her, Theon in tow, and he looked at her sadly, trying to pry their brother from her. "No, no, no!" Rickon cried, tears dribbling down his cheeks. "No!"

Quickly, Robb handed Rickon to Theon when he pulled him from Lyla and Greyjoy tried his best to hold him and carry him away. Rickon was relentlessly kicking and pounding his tiny pale fists on their father's ward's back though, crying for his sister.

Lyla could feel tears in her eyes too, and Robb rested a heavy hand on her left shoulder. "It's okay, Lyla. He'll stop eventually."

"I'm going to miss you so much," Lyla cried, hopping onto her brother, careful of her right arm, and wrapped her left arm around his neck. "I'll be lost without you."

Robb returned her embrace warmly and placed a brotherly kiss on her head before letting her down. "Next time I see you, you'll be Lady Lannister."

This was going to be the last time she would see her brother in who knew how long. She'd be living the rest of her life without him, though she'd spent the better half of it with him. Her laughter quickly turned to tears as her mind raced and Robb pulled her into another hug.

"It'll be alright, Ly. I'll write all the time. You're not losing me."

It almost sounded as though he were trying to convince himself and she nuzzled closer to his neck. "I know," she sniffled, pulling away and wiping her tears. Ser Jaime coughed and she looked up at him as he slid an arm around her shoulders.

"It's time to go."

Though Lyla had shrugged his arm from her shoulders, she didn't object to the feel of his fingers barely gracing her elbow. It was comforting, and she needed to be comforted.

The fresh air was crisp as they stepped outside, Lyla, Ser Jaime, and Robb, a light breeze dancing through the trees and shaking pine needles and leafs from them. Clouds hung wearily in the sky, covering the sun with a thick coat of grey.

Boxes of wine and their trunks were filling carts, and Lyla guess Sansa and Arya were already in the litter with the queen, since she hadn't seen them since the king announced they would be leaving. Ser Jaime excused himself to collect their horses and Robb went to find their sisters to say goodbye.

Goodbye. The word hung as heavily in the air as the clouds, and Lyla wished she didn't have to go all of a sudden. This was her home, Winterfell was her home, and she would hate any place that wasn't the North- Highgarden being the only exception. What if Lord Eddard was right and the southern men sneered at her? She scoffed at that thought though. She was a Stark of Winterfell, she didn't have the time to care what they thought of her. She had a duty to her father, to the King, to Ser Jaime. She needed to go.

"You're going to miss this place," came a deep voice behind her and she nodded.

"More than I thought possible. It's my home." Lyla turned and smiled when she saw Morrow, already tacked up, reins in Ser Jaime's hand.

He dropped the stallion's lead and put his hands on her waist, letting them linger for a moment before he hoisted her into the saddle. "I think you'll learn to love the South." Lyla shook her head, knowing she wouldn't, but he only smiled and slowly slipped his hands from her hips. "I could always make you love it."

"Ha," Lyla huffed dryly. He hopped onto his horse, an all-white mare with a long, lovely mane and armor that matched the golden set Ser Jaime wore that day. "You don't scare me, my lord."

Ser Jaime raised a brow and smirked. "I'm glad that you're not. How terrible a match it would be if you were."

"Aye, let's get a goddamn move on! Kingslayer, get your golden arse over here!" King Robert bellowed, trying to climb atop his black warhorse.

Lyla couldn't say it was unexpected that she wouldn't be riding with Ser Jaime, but she still sighed. Ser Jaime smiled at her though and patted her hand. "There will be days when we can ride together." She knew he was trying to make her smile and it worked.

"I'll be watching you," he told her before whipping his mare around and trotting to the king. Lord Eddard was with them and smiled to her solemnly before the king screamed that they were taking off.

The first steps away were easy, but the further they went, the harder it became to leave. While Lyla wasn't opposed to the opportunity, she had the gut wrenching feeling she wouldn't see Winterfell again for a long, long time. Morrow must have sensed it too, because without her order he stopped and whinnied at Winterfell's gates. Rose howled at the hooves of the stallion.

"Come on," she urged, but once they were outside the gates she felt a sort of warm protection slip from her.

She was going away, to marry of all things, and she wouldn't return home- not in years at least. She'd stepped over the boundary that was her childhood. She could hear Rickon crying for her in the courtyard where Robb held him and felt everyone's staring eyes on the back of her head, and as she galloped away and wind licked her skin, wrapped around her plaited hair, and eased the uncomfortable throbbing in her right arm. She could feel tears prickling in her eyes. When she looked to where Jon rode beside her for comfort, he smiled and nodded, and she nodded back. She was a Stark of Winterfell, not a little girl, and no matter if she was in the north or the south, winter was coming and she would be fine wherever she went.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

It was the third day of riding, and Jaime felt as though they'd moved only inches. "Slow down, Robert, or you'll give the children headaches!" Cersei would hiss through the litter, and Jaime thought the only thing that saved her from a beating was the fact that Eddard Stark was there.

While they were traveling in style, it would surely take a month to get back home, but it was another month he had to prepare for married life with Lady Lyla. She'd been riding mostly with her bastard brother, Jon, and her uncle, Benjen, the three days since they'd left Winterfell, laughing and jesting and rolling her eyes at Carinya. Carinya was the maid Jaime had arranged to stay with her in her tent and keep tabs on her, for he had the king to attend to and he didn't want her far from his eyes- even if they weren't exactly his.

Lady Lyla would send him smiles every so often and he would send them right back. It was easy to smile at her, to talk with her, to share things with her; and Jaime liked that. With Cersei it had always been about her and it had always been rough, but Lady Lyla seemed to be used to the steady, gentle life, to prefer it even. And she always listened. He could still remember the first and so far only time he'd really opened up to her, the day they walked through the courtyard and she'd kissed his cheek. Instinctively, his hand reached up to cup it gingerly at the memory, but he quickly pulled it back when he heard someone calling his name.

"Uncle Jaime, is it true that you're going to Casterly Rock once we get home?" Jaime turned his head and smiled at little Myrcella who, at only eight, looked a spitting image of her mother. Her golden curls were pulled back and twisted into a Northern braided bun, much like the way the Lady Lyla's was, and her green eyes glittered as the evening sun hit them just so. While she looked so much like the Cersei Jaime fell in love with, Myrcella had none of her mother's nature and instead was goodly and gentle.

Rearing his horse around to ride alongside Myrcella and Lady Lyla, he smiled. "Not right away. I promise I'll stay as long as I can before I go, my golden girl."

Myrcella beamed at the name as color flooded her cheeks and she nodded. "Will you and Aunt Lyla visit Tommen and I? We'll miss you so."

Lady Lyla raised a brow, lips toying into a smirk. "I thought we went over this, dear princess. I'm not yet married to your Uncle."

"Oh but you will be won't you?" Jaime hadn't even noticed Tommen riding on the other side of Lyla, who all of a sudden peeked around her shoulder from his seat on a pony as gold as his Lannister locks.

"Don't worry sweet prince-" Lady Lyla rubbed the boy's back as best she could with her one free hand, squeezing into the saddle with her knees to keep from falling off before she took the reins again, "-you can't be rid of me that easily."

Myrcella and Tommen had asked to ride with Lady Lyla after the first day of traveling, complaining to their king father that they were terribly cooped up and wanted to get to know the woman that was to be their aunt. Jaime understood what courage it took the children to fly from under their mother's protective wings.

Since being out of under Cersei's grasp, the children were much more talkative, funny even, as he heard them jest and tease with his betrothed, and it only took the second day for them to come to the realization that they adored their 'Aunt Lyla'.

It seemed everyone was growing on the girl that was to be Jaime's wife. She was the picture of Northern beauty, which the women all fawned over, yet she knew how to hold a sword and sit in the saddle better than over half of the southern men, and so naturally they flocked to her too. She seemed to be what Cersei strived to be, only better. Cersei did not like that.

"She's a fool and a whore. I bet she's already given her cunt to every soldier she's seen since getting out of that wasteland," his twin growled one night, tossing her hair over her shoulder and sipping on a sweet Dornish red.

Jaime had shrugged it off then, but how long could he do that? Surely not the full travel south. Regardless, he had a month to think of what to say to his sister- to break it to her that he, after countless hours of being lost in thought over it, found himself enjoying his betrothed's company. He found himself listening to her, teaching her about southern customs, leaning in to those beautiful smiles just to see them better. It was no question she was a good match for him- smart and witty and beautiful, but to Cersei, she was just another commoner. No, not a commoner, a threat.

"Don't you love me anymore?" Cersei would ask, wide green eyes moist from angst.

Despite all the budding feelings he had for his bride-to-be, and the depleting ones for his sister, the answer was always, "yes." And no, it wasn't a lie. Jaime loved his twin with all his heart- he had since the day he came into the world, with her at his side always. Nothing would change that, not even Lady Lyla, at least no so quickly. He would always have a spot in his heart for Cersei, but he began to question how big that spot should be.

However, riding with Myrcella, Tommen, and Lady Lyla and listening to stories of his little bride's childhood in Winterfell, Jaime felt those thoughts slipping away into oblivion. In that moment, with his sweet nephew, golden girl, and soon-to-be wife, Jaime could only focus on them, on how Myrcella blushed at the Lady Lyla's tomboyish adventures and how Lady Lyla's velvet blue eyes glimmered as she recalled her memories- all while Tommen gaped in awe.

"I was six when Robb and Theon took me down to the creek. Jon was abed sick and I wanted to ride this bucket of wheat." Lyla patted her horse's withers and smiled. "They took me to Winter Creek in the godswood and, because I hadn't saddled Morrow properly, the saddle slid right off of him and I fell into the water!"

Myrcella squeaked a laugh and Tommen gasped. "And you didn't die from the cold? You must be invincible!"

"Of course I am." Lady- no, Lady seemed too formal for how at ease she was now. Just Lyla grinned and leaned closer to him. "But don't tell your Uncle. I fear he may put that notion to the test." She winked before regaining balance on her stallion's back and Myrcella brightened up as if she thought of a new story she'd like to hear.

"Aun- Lady Lyla, where did you get Morrow? He's beautiful."

"From Willas Tyrell. I've been going to Highgarden since I was little, because Lord Mace and my Mother wanted to match me to Willas. They sent me there for at least a month every year- Oh 'Cella you'dlove it. You can smell it a mile away- roses and honey and rivers- and it's so beautiful."

Myrcella looked engrossed in the story already, wide eyed and gasping. Jaime raised a brow at Lyla's nickname for her, knowing only those that were close to her were the allowed to call her 'Cella- she didn't even like Cersei calling her by that name. "Please, go on!"

Lyla nodded, brown curls dripping from the braided bun she wore- the very one that Myrcella was sporting. "Well, as it turned out, Margaery Tyrell and I were very close in age, her being only a few months older than I, and I began going on my own will just to see her. On my sixth name day a feast was held there, and I went with Sansa and my mother. Willas gave me Morrow as a present and kissed my cheek- but then the accident happened."

While Myrcella was begging to know what accident occurred, Jaime could only think of how Willas Tyrell had stolen the first kiss on the cheek Lyla ever received from a man. It wasn't a true kiss, but it was a kiss. Overcome with a sense of possessiveness, Jaime leaned over Myrcella and planted a sloppy, wet kiss on his bride-to-be's cheek, the right one, which she'd pointed to as she told her tale, and smirked at the surge of power that warmed him.

Lyla stopped mid-sentence and stared at him with wide blue eyes, cheeks flushing, but not as bright as Myrcella's. Slowly she reached a hand up to her cheek and made to wipe the wetness away, but the sound of the King's voice stilled her movements.

"Not even your wife wants your kisses, Kingslayer!" called Robert, who fell into a fit of laughter, Benjen Stark and Jon Snow laughing along with him and the rest of the southern men.

Jaime opened his mouth to retort, but Lyla shot him a quick 'be quiet' look before smiling at the King in that heart winning way he loved so much. "Once I am his wife I'll want his kisses, your grace, you can count on that."

Robert grinned, commented that she reminded him so much of her aunt, and then resumed his conversation with Eddard. Myrcella excused herself, blushing and saying she and Tommen should go to their mother before she got angry. Tommen nodded and rode off with his sister. Jaime smirked.

"You'll want my kisses, hm?"

"As much the king wants water."

Jaime took it as a compliment at first, then slowly realized just how little water the king drank. Not even when he got sick, would he have a thing to do with it. Shooting Lyla a confused glance, she broke into a laugh, one that revealed her jest, and he sighed, smiling lightly. "How's your arm? Is Carinya taking care of you?"

Lyla shrugged her left arm and looked down at the sling. "I'm not dead yet, so she must be doing a good job."

"Lyla, I'm serious."

"I know." She rolled her blue, blue eyes and looked to him. "It's still in pain and she does a terrible job wrapping the sling. It's always so tight…"

Jaime noticed it was tight from the moment he laid eyes on her that morning and, as if on cue with his thoughts, Robert called to them and told them it was time to make camp. "Let me help you," he murmured as she struggled with her skirts, and she nodded.

Quickly, Jaime dismounted and tossed the reins to a waiting horsehand, then went to Lyla's left, plucking her off her prized stallion with ease. "Turn," he instructed, and she did, but only after raising a brow at him in question. He unraveled her braided bun, inhaling the scents that flowed from her hair as he loosened it with his fingers, brushing it gentle over her shoulder. Lyla seemed to purr as his fingers ran through her hair and he made a mental note of it. It only took a moment to untie and retie the sling's ribbon, and she rolled her neck around as he tried to massage away the tension.

"Thank you," Lyla hummed, turning to look at him.

He took in her eyes, the curve of her lips, the tip of her button nose, and those lovely, long brown curls that he never thought he'd be so interested in. He remembered clearly what he thought when he first saw her- running through the welcoming crowd in Winterfell and snuggling in between her brother and sister. She looked like a mess, out of breath with wild hair he detested at first, but he soon realized those locks of deep red-brown were probably his favorite thing about her, aside from her eyes. When Jaime first saw her, her big, bright blue Tully eyes were the only thing he had liked on her, and now, just over a month later, they were still his favorite part of her, amongst many other things.

Lost in thought and the moment, Jaime leaned in to kiss her. His lips were almost at hers, he could feel her hot breath on him, even and steady, blue eyes lovely against the pink tinted grey of the clouded sunset sky. It was all working in slow motion, beautiful and soft- until she spoke, that is.

"Why did you kiss my cheek?" she asked, as if to save herself from the intensity of the moment.

Jaime frowned, pulling away and sighing. "Can a man not kiss his betrothed?"

Lyla raised a brow. "Not so messily, no. Tell me." Her back straightened, like she was trying to gain a powerful composure- Jaime only thought it was funny, though refrained from laughing so not to hurt her feelings.

"I kissed your cheek because I was…"

"Jealous?"

"No, not jealous."

"Really?"

"Really."

Lyla stared at him for a long time before her lips curved into the most delicious smirk. "You're lying," she accused, poking his shoulder with her left index finger. "You're jealous. Admit it."

Jaime shook his head. "Not a bit. Willas Tyrell can kiss whoever he pleases."

"Oh? And if I told you Theon kissed me too?" Her lips were cat-like, curling. Her eyes were even more seductive, flickering as lightly as her hair, which was being tugged at in the gentle gust of wind that tore through the camp, which was slowly being set up. "And what if Ser Loras kissed me, too? What then?"

Jaime scowled at her disapprovingly. All this talk of her kissing others was affecting him more than he was aware, and at every new name he began to growl deeper and deeper.

But Lyla's smirk only grew at that as she started walking away, listing names as she went. "Jory Cassel, Garlan Tyrell…" Jaime followed and turned her around once they reached the first tree by grasping her shoulder, her right one, and spinning her around until she faced him.

His lips attacked hers, viciously and angrily, a fight of passion- at least for him. Lyla cried out, and not in pleasure, after he pulled her close to him, the flat of his hand splaying on the expanse of her lower back. Instinctively, his eyes snapped open and he looked down, letting her pull away.

Her eyes weren't on him as his were on her, though, and she protectively tried to cradle her right arm closer to her by covering it with the left. "Oh gods!" she hissed, tears dripping from the corners of her eyes. Her cut must have hurt her more than Jaime gave her credit for, and he bit his lip.

"I'm so sorry, I was just-"

"Please, no, it was my fault… oh gods, oh it hurts… Please… maester…"

Jaime hurried off and did as she bid him, collecting the nearest medic. Afterwards, when she was being sewn back together, he kicked the dirt and skulked away.

How could he forget about her arm? He'd been so concerned about it only a few minutes ago and there he went, squishing it and prying his fingers into her right shoulder, which was so tense when he massaged it. There was no doubt she was in dire pain.

Hadn't he wanted to be gentle with her? Hadn't he wanted to take his time and do things right? Apparently his angry mind would have nothing to do with his rational mind, and he sighed heavily. She was only jesting, yet she paid for it.

"If I had known you were so keen on hurting the girl, I would have protested the marriage myself." Jaime turned and sighed, looking down to see his younger brother, Tyrion, grinning back up at him. "What did you do this time?"

Jaime leaned against the tree, watching Lyla and Carinya speak, Rose dancing around her master, whining worriedly. "She was joking about kissing other men and…"

Tyrion raised a brow. "Don't tell me, you chased after her and were in such a blind fit of rage that you hit her. Please gods say you didn't hit her…"

"Don't be stupid!" Jaime hissed, brows knitting together. The thought of anyone hitting Lyla was making him angry again, the thought of him being the one to do it repulsive. "I went after her and I kissed her."

"She's that upset over a kiss?"

"I grabbed her shoulder. Her right one. And I…" Jaime didn't like discussing personal matters, not with anyone, but Tyrion only looked up at him, waiting. Listening. He took a breath before he continued. "I pulled her closer and…"

Tyrion sighed. "You didn't remember her arm is cut from elbow to wrist. Jaime, that's foolish- even for you- to forget. I wouldn't be surprised if it opened back up, it's so new."

Jaime's eyes widened at the thought of how it had to be re-stitched and he bit his lip, horrified. How could he have been so careless? "I should go to her."

"No, you need to let her be mad first. If she's upset right now, all that blood flowing through her will do no good for her arm… No, just leave her be for a while. It's not worth all the trouble for a quick fix of closure tonight."

Knowing Tyrion was right, he sighed and let his brother lead him to his tent. While his eyes were reluctant to leave Lyla for a moment before he entered, he caught sight of Jon Snow giving him a deathly curious glance, eyes shifting from him to Lyla and back again, and he opened the flap to the tent and let himself in.

Tyrion's tent was light and airy, red of fabric but grey, black, and gold everywhere else, as if he attempted to mix the colors of Stark and Lannister. Books were strewn about as though they'd been there for moons passed, and his bed was messily made. Tyrion motioned for Jaime to sit, and so he did, as his brother poured two glasses of wine.

"Will she be alright?" Jaime muttered worriedly, looking into the depths of the dark red liquid. It smelled coyingly sweet as it assaulted his nose, making him want to sneeze the scent back out.

Tyrion nodded. "I'm sure she'll be fine. That handmaid you sent her has the magic touch."

Jaime raised a brow. "In bed or otherwise?"

"In bed, of course."

"Please don't tell me I've sent her a whore for a maid."

"They're the only ones who don't give a rat's arse about politics, so you needn't worry about her sending reports to anyone but you." After considering it for a moment, Jaime sighed and ran a hand through his golden curls, again knowing Tyrion was right. "As they say, brother," Tyrion smiled and sipped at his wine, "you may be pretty one, but I'm far cleverer."

Jaime knew that all too well and huffed a laugh. "You can't go getting your golden arse in trouble with her like that, you know. She's a Stark- maybe she's blunt and jests like a man- but she's still a lady." Jaime knew that too, and frowned.

"I know. She can be so frustrating at times..."

"That's how women are, I'm afraid. I learned that early on. Best you do too."

Jaime winced at the memory of Tyrion's first wife, Tysha, a pretty little thing that no doubt at least liked Tyrion. A pang of guilt stung at his stomach but he drowned it with wine. A lot of wine. "I should go. We're setting off early tomorrow."

Tyrion regarded his words thoughtfully, thinking gods knew what, and nodded. "Goodnight, brother."

"Goodnight, brother." He replied, already past the threshold of the tent.

He was tired, drunk, and the feel of his warm bed furs under his body was the most inviting thought he'd had all day- and yet, Lyla still swam through his mind. "I'll make it up to her somehow." Grumbled Jaime as he shoved into his tent and flopped onto the cot unceremoniously, sleep taking him before he could even take off his boots, dreams of a certain wolf girl bubbling in his mind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Dense, dark mist hung eerily in the air the morning of the second week of their journey. It set a solemn, nearly sad mood that matched the way Lyla Stark felt exactly. Her arm was throbbing, she had a headache from Sansa and Arya fighting, and Ser Jaime was constantly apologizing to her, through means of gifts or otherwise.

It had been over a week since Jaime had crushed his lips against hers and pulled her in so tight that the stitches holding her arm together had broken open. The pain was worse then than it had been when Robb had originally sliced her, for the skin had begun to heal over the wound. It was burning, stutteringly hot as her arm-for the second time in under a moon- was torn open.

As her new maid, appointed to her by Ser Jaime and who she was indifferent to, took her over to the outside of her tent and came back out with the maester Ser Jaime had fetched, boiling hot wine and new threads, she clenched her jaw shut. It wasn't until the maester was finished re-stitching that Lyla released a long, shaking breath. The sling was rewrapped, looser by Lyla's command, and she quickly made her way to Jon, Rose padding beside her as always.

She'd spoken with Jon all night about her reservations about King's Landing and Sansa's betrothal among other things, and as they conversed, Lyla felt her pain slipping away. But now, over a week since then, Jon was leaving, and Lyla had never felt worse.

"Aunt Lyla?" A pitchy sweet voice coaxed her from her mind and she looked down, sighing lightly.

Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon had been following Lyla around camp since the morning of the second day of the travel south, and while the Queen seemed to disapprove of her son and daughter's choice of companion and the princess and little Tommen endlessly talked and talked, Lyla found herself enjoying their company more than she anticipated.

Blushing, the princess nudged closer to her. Myrcella always blushed. It only added to her beauty though. While her father was a stag, the little royal was all Lannister, with flowing curls of gold and piercingly green eyes that always smiled with her plump, shell-pink lips. "I know you don't like when we call you that, but we love you so much! I want to be able to call you my family!"

Lyla smiled and ran her fingers through Rose's pelt, who pawed at the ground beside her. "You will one day. It could be years from now though, you know." Nothing was certain or final on how long their engagement would be. Lord Tywin wanted to push it to be very soon, but her father was reluctant.

"I don't want to wait years though, Lady Lyla." Myrcella frowned and sighed. Tommen ran up behind his sister, pudgy cheeks wind-nipped with as much pink as his nose and fingertips.

After a moment's thought, she bit her lip and exhaled. "I guess you can call me your Aunt until then if you want…"

"Oh can we?" Tommen beamed almost as brightly as his sister and they both hugged her skirts before giggling and skipping off to their litter, claiming they'd be back later. The queen had called for them.

Lyla savored the spare moment she had alone, sucking air in between her teeth. She'd hardly had a moment to herself in the past two weeks, and she relished in it, smoothing down her silken blue skirts and tugging the Stark grey ribbon from her hair, shaking it free of its far-too-tight braid. Slowly, she made her way to where her stallion Morrow was, in all his blue roan and silky black maned glory, grazing alongside Jon and Uncle Benjen's horses.

"Hello boy," she murmured, noting that he was already tacked up and ready to be ridden. "How did you sleep, my dear?"

"Quite well, actually, though I don't believe I'm the brother you should call dear."

Lyla turned quickly, brows rising. Her eyes were met with the scene of the camp being packed up until she looked down to the noise of someone clearing their throat. "Oh, my lord." There Lord Tyrion stood, clean as a whistle and grinning something wild. "I didn't know you were here."

Tyrion raised a brow too, nodding. "Apparently so. How is your arm, my lady Stark?"

"It's well. Thank you." In truth, that morning it was drumming in pain worse than the others. "Are you excited to be visiting the Wall, Lord Lannister?" Lord Tyrion would be riding off with Jon, Lyla was told, to take a gander at the view and piss off the edge. In all honesty, Lyla was highly curious what would happen if one pissed off the edge of the Wall.

The green in his eyes twinkled as the sun shot through a patch of storm grey clouds and began breaking them up throughout the sky, fog slowly fading. "I am most excited, yes. And, considering the circumstances, I think just Tyrion is fine."

"Of course." Lyla rubbed Morrow's neck as he turned around and nudged her, wincing slightly when his muzzle graced her sling. If Tyrion noticed, and there was no doubt he had, he didn't show it.

"Listen," Tyrion began, grabbing Lyla's attention as she looked back to him. "I know that my brother is a fool, a bloody cocky one at that, but he would never mean you harm. He didn't mean to hurt you, Lyla."

She nodded. "I know."

"And even though he's an ass, he'll try if you give him the chance."

"I know."

"I understand we didn't start off on the right foot, but I want you to know that I'll try, too. Try and be a good brother, I suppose, though I'd much rather be the funny one- and yes, you know that too, don't you?"

Tyrion was smirking and Lyla laughed for the first time that day, stress of losing her brother fading. "He sent me a rabbit that his guards caught for him. A pretty little thing, but what would I ever do with a rabbit?"

"What did you do with it?"

"I had Carinya find a cage for it, to make it at home."

Tyrion huffed. "We were expecting you to shoo it away or kill it. Eat it even, if you were sadistic enough."

Lyla raised a brow. "Mayhaps I'm not what anyone's expecting then."

He smiled. "Of course you're not."

"You said we, before. You said we were expecting?"

"Jaime and I." Tyrion ran a stubby-fingered hand over Morrow's long muzzle fondly as the horse bowed his head to sniff him. "He consults me with everything. You know, you can too. I'm not so bitter as my sister. I won't bite."

Lyla couldn't help but frown. "I don't blame her for being that way." The queen had been put through so much it seemed- refused a betrothal to Rhaegar, forced to marry the new king who slayed the one she loved, lost her first babe… and had a sniveling shit of a cousin among other things. Lyla shivered at the thought of Lancel. Bastard, she thought coldly.

Tyrion only looked at her, regarding the changes in her expression with calm, bi-colored eyes. The one green was a replica of Jaime's calm, emerald eyes. She suddenly realized she hadn't seen his face in over a week- not since the night he'd vengefully kissed her.

Lyla's hand twitched to reach up and touch her lips, but she shook the thoughts away as a cold gust of wind danced through her rusty brown ringlets. "Do you know where Ser Jaime is?"

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak but the king's voice boomed instead. "We're riding out, come on damnit!"

"I'm afraid the time for talk is over now, dear Lyla. I bid you goodbye, for now. We'll see each other once it's time for real goodbyes, I'm sure." He looked apologetic almost, giving her a smile, patting her hand, and leaving as she called her farewell. For now.

Lyla was about to bid for Carinya to help her mount, but a pair of hands were already on her waist, lifting her into Morrow's old leather saddle. "I'll have a new saddle made once we reach King's Landing," came a familiar voice. One she didn't realize she'd missed.

"I've had this saddle since I was ten years of age, I'm not giving it up until it breaks." She smiled as a pair of dark gold brows furrowed and lighter gold waves swayed in the breeze, green eyes soft.

"Lyla, I know I've been… neglecting you… but I am sorry. If you're still mad, I understand, I just want to know what I can do to make it okay again." He looked down at her arm and frowned heavily. "I really never meant to do that. I'm sorry…"

She hadn't been angry to begin with but if she had been then the pure and frontal concern for her that glimmered in his Lannister eyes would have done it. That, or the fact that he, the Kingslayer, the Lannister Lion, the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms- or so they say…- was practically on his knees apologizing. She hushed him, two fingers pressed softly to his lips. "Jaime, I'm fine, and it's okay. Stop worrying about me."

He kissed her fingers quickly before she retreated them to the reins, fixing her boots into the stirrups. "I can't just stop worrying. You're to be my wife, and I never want to hurt you." Jaime sighed, running his fingers through his hair as King Robert called him by his "petname". The way he flinched at the sound of it wasn't missed by Lyla, brown curls blurring her vision for a moment before she tucked the strands behind her ear. "I have to go. I'll talk to you as soon as I can, alright?"

She nodded and watched him go, sighing, wondering if one day she would have the power over him that her mother had over her father. Lady Catelyn. The name sounded funny, even just in her thoughts, and she wrinkled her nose. Her mother, while every bit beautiful and more or less goodly, was never as cold to her as she was when the royal family came to Winterfell. Lyla silently questioned if it was simply a coincidence, or if the gods had shoved her from her childhood into the arms of Jaime Lannister on purpose. No matter, she thought fluidly as the party began to move. She would have plenty of time to think about it- after she'd said goodbye to Jon.

The horses pranced steadily along the King's Road, and Lyla was dreadfully thankful that the young prince and princess, Tommen and Myrcella, had chosen to stay inside the litter for the moment. She wanted as much time with Jon as she could get.

"Do you remember when Arya was born?" Lyla asked, looking over to him, blue eyes meeting grey.

Jon nodded, smiling tightly at the memory. "Lady Stark was in such a worry that you wouldn't be there, since you weren't due back from Highgarden for another week when her water broke." His horse whinnied and stomped at the ground for a moment before continuing, and Jon, as patient as ever, waited until the horse had finished with its tromp to kick into its sides. "And you came charging through the gates of Winterfell right when Arya came charging into the world. Almost like magic."

Lyla snorted a laugh and smirked. "And I demanded to hold her first. Not even after mother." She sighed then, eyes downcast. "If mother hadn't sent me away, I could have been there when the water broke… I don't know why she was so set on me leaving as a girl."

"I don't know how she could bare to part with you. I know I couldn't when we were young. Still don't know if I can."

Jon looked so sincerely sad then that Lyla wanted to curse her sling and hold him, but as her arm throbbed and throbbed, she was reminded to do otherwise. Instead, she settled for smiling and drawing Morrow closer to his steed. "You can still say no, Jon. I can convince father into letting you come with us to King's Landing, or maybe back to Winterfell."

He shook his head. "Neither of those places are meant for me. I'd never make it in that rat's nest of a capitol, and Winterfell still holds the Lady Stark. Lya, the Wall is the only place for me."

"What about the wolf pack? The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Jon, you'll be a lone wolf." Lyla frowned and sighed, eyes on his. "Jon, you're my brother. I only wish you could see it that way."

Jon's thick brows knitted together. "Lyla, I see myself as your brother as much as Robb, Bran, Rickon, and even Theon do. I'm not doing this to hurt you. That's the last thing I want to do. I just need to find myself."

"I'll never understand why," Lyla muttered, and he rubbed her back in soft, slow circles. While all Lyla wanted to do was hear Theon's calming laugh, this gesture of brotherly affection was enough to still her worries. "I'm scared I'll never see you again," She confessed quietly, looking up at him with nervous eyes. "I have this… feeling... that I won't."

"Don't talk that way," he murmured quickly. "I'll never let that happen. You're my sister, and I'll come see you as often as I can. You know that."

Lyla nodded, leaning into the hand that still rubbed her back. "I know. I'm just…"

The sound of horses riding heavily towards them made Lyla stop mid-sentence and both she and Jon turned in their saddles. Uncle Benjen and their father, Lord Eddard Stark, galloped towards them, grim expressions matching solemn eyes.

"We've come to the crossroad. It's time for us to say our goodbyes," Lord Eddard told them, nodding his head over to the road that lay just in front of them.

Lyla's one-handed grip on Morrow's reins tightened until her knuckles paled to white. "So soon?" She'd been expecting them to find the road near nightfall, not morning. She wasn't ready for parting with Jon in the morning.

Jon removed his hand from her back and sighed, looking up at her through his hair. "It'll be okay. Don't worry."

Uncle Benjen gave his niece a smile. "I'll take care of him, you know that."

"Can I have a moment alone with Jon, Uncle? Father?"

They two older men looked down at Lyla from their stallions, understanding eyes warming her. "Of course," Benjen said as Lord Eddard hummed a, "yes."

Lyla swung her leg over Morrow's side until she was side-saddle and slipped from his back, Jon doing the same. They stood in front of their horses just looking at each other for a moment- memorizing every piece of each other. This would be the last time they saw each other face to face for a very long time.

Wordlessly, Jon pulled Lyla into a hug and held her close. The pain in her arm wasn't even a concern as she reached her left arm over his right shoulder and hugged him to her. She remembered his scent; horses and wind and home.

Jon was her friend, her brother, the most Stark of any of them. He was her rock. Jon was her friend, her brother, and it was time for him to leave her.

"I love you, Jon," Lyla choked out through silvery tears. "I'm going to miss you so much."

Jon sniffed into her hair as if to stop himself from crying. Not in front of everyone else. "I'm going to miss you too," he murmured, kissing the crown of her head as he pulled away from her, grey eyes watered and diluted with sadness.

"Have you said your goodbyes to the girls?" she asked, biting her lip.

He nodded. "As soon as they woke up. Arya's upset. You should go to her soon."

It was Lyla's turn to nod, then. "I'll see her tonight. Father's called us to have a family dinner."

Jon sighed. "I should go. They'll be waiting." He neared her and made to lift her up, but stopped when she shook her head.

"Not yet," Lyla whispered, then folded down her skirts before she began to move across from Jon- who was one step behind her for a moment- and to the signs that marked the crossroad. To where Tyrion stood, smiling.

"My lady, it pains me to leave you." He smirked, bowing slightly.

Lyla smiled and winked, curtsying. "I am sad to see you go. I was just becoming fond of your company."

They both laughed at that, a much needed laugh, and then Tyrion's expression softened even further. "Lyla," he whispered to her in a hushed tone. "Please remember to give Jaime a chance. He didn't mean…"

She raised a hand and smiled. "No need to worry, I'm not upset." He nodded, glancing at her arm quickly before the smile reappeared.

"The next time I see you, I hope you're my sister. I'd so love to have one." Lyla's mind flipped to Cersei, but remembered the way Her Grace called Tyrion a monster.

Shoving her thoughts away, Lyla felt her lips tugging upwards. "I look forward to your return."

"As do I, my lady." Tyrion gave her a short nod, patting her hand before turning to mount his jet black pony. Jon advanced to her once she began walking back, and finally got leave to lift her to Morrow's saddle.

"Goodbye, Jon," she whispered, sad again now that she was eye to eye with her brother- probably for the last time in years.

He shook his head, near-black curls bouncing. "Not goodbye. Not forever. I'll see you soon, sister."

She bobbed her head, nodding softly. "I'll see you soon, brother."

The ride back from leaving Jon was one of the hardest things Lyla had ever had to endure in her life. There was a deep, burning sensation that made her feel hollow. Her brother, her Stark colored brother with the gentlest temperament imaginable. Her brother. He was gone now, to take the black and live at the Wall. He wouldn't see her wedding, wouldn't meet her children probably until they were grown. Oh Jon.

Tears graced her wind-licked cheeks, her mood as blue as her Tully eyes. She hardly had the heart to notice the beauty of the scene around her- the way the snowcapped mountains seemed to balance the sun on their tips, how the wildflowers bloomed all around them, how the birds chirped and sang their pretty songs.

Jon loved to hear the birds sing, Lyla thought solemnly. It calmed him. Lord Eddard seemed unfazed, galloping a stride ahead of her, breathing almost as heavily as his snowy draft horse.

Rose came yipping- loose from the lead that Carinya held her on when she wasn't with Lyla, barking and whining happily with her long, fluffy brown tail swinging from side to side. "Shhh," Lyla murmured to the wolf as Morrow slowed and eventually stopped, yards away from where her father stopped by the king.

"Carinya, please take Rose," she muttered to the sandy-haired maid that came running to Morrow's recue, grabbing the lead and tugging on it gently.

"Come on, Rose, come on," Carinya murmured, eventually coaxing the wolf into sitting at her side. "My lady." The girl, who wasn't really a girl and was probably a few years older than Lyla, bowed and made to leave, Rose padding at her side.

It was at the queen's insistence that Lyla not be able to ride with Rose alongside her- "It's unsafe! The smelly beast will be trampled or eat a horse," Cersei complained, brows knitting together darkly. That was the first time she'd ever felt anything but pity for the queen, and knew it wouldn't be the last.

Lyla sighed, rubbing Morrow's withers and leaning down further to his neck. It would be so hard without Jon, she thought. It would be hard to be without a stable brother, with one unconscious, one a stand-in Lord, and the last being only four. Her eyes followed to where Arya was being chased after by Tommen- who was holding a thick-furred black and white kitten- and then to where Sansa was giggling with the Prince Joffrey, his scarred Hound faithfully at his side. They were the last family she would see for a very long time, aside from her father, who sat dutifully at his king's side, horses nearly bumping.

Then her eyes ventured to the other side of Robert Baratheon, clad in yellow and black, to where a pair of luminous green eyes were already on her. Jaime, a voice in her head hummed, his knightly title forgotten. Soon, Jaime would be her family too, and she wouldn't be so alone. When Tyrion returned, she'd have another brother to jest with and share with. Mayhaps it won't be so bad, Lyla found herself pondering, if I end up surrounded by Lions rather Wolves.

Jaime smiled to her and then resumed riding, nodding to something the King bellowed and smirking challengingly to another guard. While her golden haired husband-to-be was no Jon or Theon, he had a certain quality about his smile, about him in general, that made Lyla feel as though she were wrapped in her baby blanket or in strong arms- his strong arms, perhaps. She didn't know, nor care, as she took full solace in his glancing eyes and quick just-for-her smiles. She might not have Jon anymore, but something told Lyla that Jaime would make an acceptable substitute, as she watched him wink to the Princess Myrcella, who poked her sunny curl-covered head out of the slow paced litter. Not a perfect substitute, no, but it was a start.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Lift your sword arm higher."

"Like this?"

"Perfect. Now, keep your shield arm closer."

"This way?"

"Exactly." Mycah took a jab at Arya, a grin gracing his lips.

They'd been out in the woods since morning, when the king announced that the Queen Cersei was too exhausted to travel that day. Arya and Mycah were slicing and jabbing and smacking at each other repeatedly, taking no breaks and sparing no time. The butcher's boy looked worn, panting and out of breath, but was smiling none the less as Arya lunged at him again and again. Lyla, as always, spectated. She gave tips, watching intently on a nearby log, Rose and Nymeria laying on either side of her, watching with an equal amount of curiosity.

It was uncomfortably warm, sun covering the whole world, it seemed, with a dusty haze of light as gold as Lannister curls. Gentle white clouds bubbled in the eastern sky and a light gust of wind swept through the trees every so often, cooling them as it passed, tugging at their hair and whispering at the direwolves' fur. The day was calm, quiet even, aside from the sounds of smacking wood.

After Jon left for the Wall, Lyla had been spending a lot more time with her younger sister, who, now they were dreadfully close to King's Landing, was able to ride with her, on a small mouse-grey pony. Maybe it was because Arya looked so much like their brother, or perhaps it was because her sister acted so much like the rowdy Robb and Theon. Or simply because she was lonely.

Since her brother had gone with their Uncle Benjen, Lyla had felt isolated. Jaime was constantly doing things for the king, and the royal children, Myrcella and Tommen, had taken to riding in the litter more often- due to Cersei's influence or not, she did not know.

"Mycah, try harder!" Arya whined, her high voice dragging Lyla out of her thoughts and pulling her in to reality.

The red haired butcher's boy wrinkled his thick nose, chubby cheeks making his small, muddy green-brown eyes even smaller. "I was trying, m'lady."

Arya grinned, grey eyes twinkling. "Well try harder."

The stance that the youngest Stark daughter held roughly reminded Lyla of Bran, the day she helped him practice in the training yard, so long ago it seemed. She felt a jerk of tears and looked towards the river to distract herself, watching as it slowly trickled behind the two younger ones, who, oblivious to her sudden offset of emotion, continued fighting.

The water looked crystal blue, sparkling as bright as Jaime's eyes when he'd kissed her for the first time. A voice in her head murmured his name, and she sighed. Lyla did not deny that she missed his company; his slightly mocking voice and barely-crooked smile. More than once she'd caught herself watching him as he walked about camp or rode with King Robert, and more than once she'd have to distract herself from riding up to him, purely because she didn't know what to say or do.

As she focused on what surrounded her, Lyla heard mumbled words and her head snapped to where she saw a flash of Tully red ringlets and shiny golden hair. At first her mind switched to Jaime, but then she remembered that Sansa was engaged to a certain yellow-haired prince.

"My princess can drink as much as she wants," came the royal Prince Joffrey's sniveling voice. He was clad in ruby and gold with a sweeping black cloak to match his tall black boots, slightly heeled to make him appear taller.

As Sansa stepped closer into view, Lyla raised a brow. Her sister was donned in a modest blue gown, simply yet stunning as it brought out her eye color and made her hair look more like fire than any other dress could have done.

Her younger sister seemed no to register the words for a moment before she cautiously accepted the wine cask and took a sip. Lyla's left hand knuckles grew whiter by the second. That sniveling price was giving her eleven-year-young sister wine, looking at her as though she were a pet rather his betrothed, and smirking so devilishly with those piggy lips of his. It took all her strength not to snarl.

"I'll get you Mycah!" Arya cried as the red-head smiled brightly, baring yellowish teeth.

Sansa's head shot up, as well as Joffrey's, and she wrinkled her nose ugly-like, raising a brow. "Arya? Lyla?" she gasped, right as the youngest Stark daughter was smacked in the arm by her elder friend's stick.

"Ow!" Arya hissed, rubbing her arm for a moment before she looked back to Sansa. "What are you doing here? Go away!"

Sansa glared, cheeks seeming to burn with embarrassment. "Your sisters?" The prince questioned, high-raised brows hooding over curious green eyes. Joffrey neared the two kids as Sansa stayed behind, watching with narrowed blue eyes. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Mycah, my lord," came a meek reply, as the pudgy three-and-ten red-head dropped his sword arm and took step back.

"He's the butcher's boy." said Sansa, either bored or mad, Lyla couldn't tell.

Arya's dark brown brows knit together. "He's my friend!"

The golden haired prince smiled annoyingly smug. "A butcher's boy who wants to be a knight?" Joffrey unsheathed a sword- a true steel sword- and pointed it at Mycah. "Well, pick up your sword butcher's boy, let me see how good you are."

"I think that's enough, my lord. He's only a boy. Children playing at swords." Lyla injected into the conversation, rising from her spot on the fallen log, Nymeria and Rose's back-fur on its end.

Joffrey sneered. "I'm your Prince, not your Lord. And I told him to pick up his sword."

Mycah shot her a look and bit his lip. "It's not a sword, my prince. It's only a stick." He shook the stick by his thigh and shrugged.

Joffrey was unrelenting, though, and shoved his steel at Mycah's cheek, poking at it. "And you're not a knight. Only a butcher's boy." He shot a look to Arya and then narrowed his eyes to the red-head. "That was my lady's sister you were hitting. Do you know that?"

"Stop it!" Arya screamed with fiery eyes.

Sansa's glare intensified. "Arya stay out of this."

"Sansa, you stay out of this!" Lyla hissed, clenching her fist into balls over and over, frothing with anger as she jumped up, wolves at her side. She picked Mycah's stick from his hand and pointed it at the prince as he commented on how little he would hurt Mycah, piercing her friend's cheek with his steel.

Arya seemed not to care much for the need to not physically harm the prince as she smacked his back with her stick-sword. "Filthy little bitch!" cried Joffrey as he cringed, falling to his knees. He swung at Arya but Lyla shoved her sister behind her, smacking the prince's sword arm.

"Stop it, stop it both of you! You're spoiling it, you're spoiling everything!" Sansa wailed, swinging her arms childishly, frowning.

Joffrey angrily screamed. "I'll gut you, you little cunt!" he spat, green eyes hot on Lyla's own blue. He was about to lunge upwards from the ground when Nymeria bounded from Lyla's side onto Joffrey- only to be ripped off of him by Rose, who then carried her wolf sister by the scruff, away from the prince.

Lyla moved to stand in front of the Prince, who cradled his right arm, holding it up like her own right arm was held in its sling. "You may be Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, but you are my sister's betrothedfirst and my other sister's soon-to-be brother. Should you ever, ever speak to either of them as thus or raise a hand to them, I'll not hesitate to act."

Arya picked up the prince's sword, which Lyla had knocked out of his grasp, and used the rest of her strength to swing it into the river that Lyla, only moments ago, had admired for its trickling clear beauty.

"Oh my sweet prince," Lyla heard her younger sister whisper to the fallen golden-haired devil, kneeling beside him. Her eyes were drenched with worry. "Are you terribly hurt?"

Lyla sighed, watching her sister. "Sansa." She waited until deeply annoyed Tully eyes shot up to continue. "Go for help for the prince, make sure all is fine and that Nymeria didn't bite him too hard."

Sansa nodded slowly, waiting to let the meaning of her words sink in before she stood. "Where are you going?" she asked as Lyla turned to where Arya had sprinted off to the moment after she'd thrown the sword.

"I'm going after Arya. One of us has to have enough sense to."

"Arya it's for the best."

"I can't. I can't, Lyla."

"Arya, you have to."

Lyla watched as her sister stared watery-eyed at her direwolf- Nymeria- with a quivering lip and weak, shaking hands. "Lyla, she's a piece of me. She's mine. And I'm hers."

She ran fingers through her sister's thin brown hair. "The queen will kill her, sweet sister," Lyla murmured, voice softer now. "If she runs off here, we can find her later. When we go back home."

"We'll never go home," Arya whispered darkly, dragging Nymeria into a tight, hard hug, nuzzling her nose into the depths of her wolf's fur and raking her fingers across her back. "I'm sorry," Lyla heard her sister hum into the wolf's ear, kissing its forehead.

Nymeria whimpered as her master pulled away.

"Lady Arya! Lady Lyla!" deep voices called out. "Come out, it's alright!"

Lyla shook her head to keep her sister quiet. Arya nodded, then shoved at her wolf's shoulders, making it stumble back. Nymeria whined again and cocked her head, pawing at the ground.

"Go, girl," Arya muttered, almost a whisper. "They'll never forgive you. Not for what you did to Joffrey. Go, now!"

"Leave!" Lyla rushed. Arya tossed a rock at the wolf for incentive. Eventually the wolf backed up and turned, running a few feet before turning back and whining for one last time before sprinting away.

Arya immediately began to bawl, not bothering to keep quiet as Lyla heard the same deep voices shouting at one another, and then shouting their names. "Lady Arya, Lady Lyla!"

Lyla began to cry too, then, holding her sister with her free hand, pulling her onto her lap. "Shhh," she murmured, kissing her sister's forehead through shaky sobs. Arya clung to her neck, crying heavily into her shoulder, and, not knowing any other thing to do Lyla began humming, as their lady mother would do when they were hurt or upset in Winterfell.

She must have been humming for at least a few minutes before the Lannister men found them, Arya only sniffling now. One of the men tried to touch Arya, to help her up, but Lyla hissed and held her sister closer.

"Ser Jaime, we've found them!" she heard one call.

"They're over here, come on!"

"…Crying."

"Singing…"

Their voices meshed into one, and Lyla grinded her teeth to keep from screaming at them to be quiet. Arya scrambled to her feet as a guard asked it of her, biting her lip until it turned white, as if to refrain from crying again, and Lyla held her eyes shut tight, trying to tune out the men's voices. Their deep bellows added to her swirling headache, and she felt tears streaming again. Until one voice downed the others out.

"Lyla."

It only took that one word, her name being whispered, for Lyla to know it was Jaime, and she eagerly wrapped her left arm around him, sucking in a deep, much needed breath. "Jaime," she whimpered, then sighed as he straightened up, taking her with him.

He kneeled slightly so her feet touched the ground, releasing her, but held her hand in his. Lyla watched as one of the guards tried to grab at Arya's arm and hissed, "don't touch her!"

Arya looked to Lyla and ran to hug her skirts, burying her face there. Lyla looked up at Jaime and he pursed his lips. "Don't touch the Stark girls. They can ride with me."

"I don't want to ride with a filthy Lannister," Lyla heard Arya sneer under her breath, and was glad that Jaime couldn't have heard it. It was so quiet.

"Please, sweet sister. We need to see father."

Arya nodded and Jaime lifted her onto his saddle, Arya following and sitting on her lap. Jaime got on last and Lyla leaned into him slightly as his arms wrapped around her to reach the reins. His hold was comforting, she thought, as they galloped back towards camp.

Lord Eddard came striding into the tent with a fury, grey eyes never looking blacker with anger. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Arya cried once she caught sight of their father, who kneeled to her side immediately, asking if she was hurt. "No," Arya replied, looking to Lyla for comfort.

Lord Eddard turned to Lyla and cast a glance at her arm. "Are you hurt?" She shook her head, which thundered worse than her arm ever had, and gave him a weak smile as he drew her and his youngest daughter into a warm hug.

"That's alright," their father murmured to his daughters, kissing their foreheads. The fire in his eyes grew darker then, as he looked up to King Robert. "What is the meaning of this? Why were my daughters not brought to me at once?"

Queen Cersei snarled, baring her perfect pearly teeth. "How dare you speak to your King in that manner?"

"Quiet woman!" Robert bellowed, rolling his eyes, which were hooded under thick black brows. "Sorry Ned. I never meant to frighten the girls, but we need to get this business done quickly."

"Your girls and that butcher's boy attacked my son. Those animals of theirs nearly tore his arm off." Cersei glared at Lyla especially long, and all the pity she ever felt for the queen dissipated.

Arya defiantly held her chin up. "That's not true! She just… bit him a little." She paused for a moment, her little face scrunching up.

"He was hurting Mycah," Lyla finished for her sister, who reached up and held her hand, nodding confirmation.

Cersei narrowed her eyes. "Joff told us what happened. You two and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolves on him."

"Yes! They all attacked me and she-" Joffrey jabbed a finger in the air, pointing to Arya, "-threw my sword in the river!"

Robert sighed heavily and drank a few glugs of wine before speaking. "Enough. The girls tell me one thing and the boy tells another. Seven hells, what am I to make of this?" He looked to their lord father. "Ned, where's your other daughter?"

"In bed, asleep," Ned affirmed. Lyla narrowed her eyes at the queen when she smiled deliciously.

"She's not. Sansa, come here darling."

The crowd parted and Lyla pulled Arya to the side as Sansa approached, looking to the ground before meeting eyes with the king and queen.

"Now girl," Robert began. "Tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true. It's a great crime to lie to your King."

Lyla could feel the heat emanating from Sansa's cheeks as she bit her lip. "I don't know," she murmured. "I don't remember. Everything happened so fast. I didn't see."

"Liar!" Arya screamed immediately. "Liar, liar, liar, liar, liar!"

Lyla ripped her right arm from its sling to pull Arya off of where she'd jumped onto Sansa's back and ripped at her hair, screaming liar!

Cersei's lip raised in a slight sneer. "She's as wild as those animals of yours. I want her punished. I want them both punished."

Robert slammed his cup onto the table. "What would you have me do? Whip them through the streets? Damnit, children fight. It's over."

"Joffrey will carry those scars for the rest of his life!" Cersei protested, eyes narrow and full of hatred. They were directed on Lyla, who looked to where Jaime stood beside the king for reassurance.

Jaime shook his head slightly, as if to motion not to look at him, but to the king, who glared to his son. "You let that little girl disarm you?" he asked, looked to where Lyla was working on her sling, trying to pull it back over her arm. "Ned!" he barked. "You see to it your girls are disciplined. I'll do the same with my son."

Lord Stark nodded before sliding Lyla's arm into the sling as gently as he dared. King Robert had begun walking away when the queen spoke again, making everyone cringe.

"What of the direwolves? What of the beasts that savaged your son?"

King Robert sighed, heavily annoyed, and turned. "Damnit, I forgot about the damned wolves."

"We found no trace of the direwolf, your grace," said one of the guards that had found Lyla and Arya.

"No? So be it."

"We have one of them," Cersei murmured, smirking in disgusting excitement. "We have two of the wolves."

King Robert stared at his wife for a long time, and Lyla even longer before answering. "As you will."

Lord Eddard shook his head in disbelief. "You can't mean it."

The king shook his head, too. "A direwolf's not a pet. Get your girls dogs. They'll be happier for it."

Lyla just stared at King Robert, gaping. Her eyes were watering and she forced her mouth to close, though her bottom lip quivered. "Your grace, your grace please."

"He can't mean Lady, can he?" Sansa was on the verge of tears, looking to the king with eyes as equally pleading as Lyla's. "No, no not Lady! Lady didn't bite anyone, she's good!"

"Lady wasn't there. She'd didn't do it!" Arya cried. "Rose didn't bite Joffrey either!"

Lyla clenched her fists, both of them, not giving a shit about the pain that surged through her right arm. "Your grace, please listen to reason-"

"I enjoy you girl, but watch it. This isn't up for discussion any longer."

Cersei's smirk only grew as time went on. "Where is Ser Illyn?"

"No!" Lyla screamed, "No!" She neared the king and clenched her left fist over and over. "Your grace, if it wasn't for my direwolf, your son's arm would be no more!"

Arya nodded viciously. "Rose pulled Nymeria off of Joffrey. I saw it. Sansa saw it!"

"It's true," Sansa muttered, looking down.

Joffrey's lip snarled but he said nothing.

"Your grace," came a light, airy voice. "The wolf that bit the prince is gone, and the other saved him. The Lady Sansa's wolf had no part. Why kill the two that have done no harm?" Jaime rested a hand on her left shoulder, arm around her from where he stood on her right. She leaned into his touch as much as the moment allowed.

Jaime squeezed her shoulder tighter and smiled down at her before an eerie silence over took the tent, everyone waiting for the king's decision.

None of them were ready for his answer as he bellowed it, loud and clear, and none of them expected it, only quiet gasps and sighs.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"Look, Lyla," Jaime whispered into her ear, smiling and pointing before them. "King's Landing."

The Stark girl looked up from her hands, clearly having been lost deep in thought, and gave the view before her a weak smile before leaning back into his chest on the saddle and sighing. Jaime frowned. She was homesick, she was tired, and she was desperately hot. While the southern heat had been inviting and welcoming to the Lion of Lannister, to Lyla Stark, a daughter of the North, it had been sweltering and unwanted.

It had been a week since the incident on the Trident, a week since the king had ordered the death of the wolves, a week since Jaime saved them- even the little Arya's wolf, who he'd personally gone out in the Kingswood to find, hiding in the hollow of a fallen tree. While he had rescued the wolves from their fates, he couldn't rescue the boy- Mycah, a pudgy redhead with freckles and crooked yellow teeth- who was run over by Sandor Clegane's steed. Lyla had tried to kill the Hound for it, silly little bride of his, tried to run at him with a steel sword, but Jaime had caught her before she made the mistake in thinking she could kill the man who was nearly thrice her size and had far over thrice her strength. In the end, after much discussion between Eddard, the king, Lyla, and Jaime, it was decided that her horse be tied to Jaime's saddle, and Lyla ride with him for the rest of the trip in fear that she try and go after Sandor again. She hadn't tried to disobey the command of keeping her distance from the Hound, though, and stayed at Jaime's side even when they weren't ridding.

In the end, Jaime didn't mind being at her side. She molded to him as they rode like pudding in a bowl and her hand in the crook of his elbow as they walked about camp together had felt nice- still, she seemed unhappy and was terribly distant, and Jaime couldn't blame her. If his brother had gone to the Wall forever, and not a few weeks, he would be on edge too, just as he would if he had to leave his home and family in King's Landing to live the rest of his days in the North or if Addam Marbrand, Jaime's childhood friend, had been run over by a horse; yet there was Lyla, having to endure all three of those things and more.

"Jaime…" The voice sounded breathless and he looked down to Lyla, loosening his arms around her waist, not realizing just how tight his hold had gotten. She let out a long breath and quickly inhaled in a way that made Jaime want to laugh.

"Sorry," he murmured, feeling as she relaxed into him once again. He inhaled, the familiar rosewater scent of her tickling at his nose. It was never an assaulting amount of rosewater, rather, it was subtle and coy, like a maiden's blush.

The king spurred his heavy black warhorse around and cleared his throat then, cracking his knuckles all at once by interlacing his fingers and pushing them from him. "Welcome to the bloody rat's hole!" he hollered, winking to Lyla who, for the first time in almost a week, laughed. The delicious trills of her quiet giggles flitted to his ears and he was pinned with the realization that he would do a terrible many things to hear that laugh more often.

Lyla kicked into the sides of his horse and flicked the reins, for Jaime had figured she'd be more comfortable if she were in control as she had been when she were on her blue-roan stallion, Morrow, and they began moving quicker.

He leaned in closer to her, "The city isn't so bad," he told her, smirking at how her breathing hitched at the feel of his breath on her ear. "Some nights it gets as cold as the north, and it'll be winter soon, wild wolf of mine."

"Wild wolf of yours? I dare say, you're making a claim on me, Jaime Lannister," Lyla whispered back, and he could hear her slight smile. Maybe being off the saddle and back in a real bed with her wolf at her side, rather Rose being leashed and caged with the other two direwolves, would bring her back- the idea of it certainly was making her less dreary.

Jaime smiled into her hair, burying his face there for a moment before looking back up to the city. "It's only fair, you are to be my wife soon after all."

She laughed. "I'm sure half the capitol will think we already are married, me riding with you and all… I don't see why I still have to, I'm perfectly…"

"…I hope you weren't going to say perfectly fine to ride alone, because while I trust you," Jaime held her just the slightest bit closer, "it's a rather different story for the Hound. He might have taken offense to your attempt on his life, and if you were left unguarded…" He was jesting lightly, but she wasn't.

"Jaime, he killed Mycah," she hissed, and he craned his neck to see her scowl. Her silky blue eyes were focused on her hands once again, a flash of guilt plaguing them as her fingers flexed around the reins. "I could have saved him if I'd brought him with me when I went after Arya. It's my fault. It's my fault Mycah died. I could have gone after him, I could have…"

Jaime shook his head and sighed. "Lyla please. There was nothing anyone could have done, save the Hound- but he'll see that boys face every night. He probably feels worse than you."

Lyla's eyes narrowed in disbelief. She could feel his lie, and made to comment, but suddenly they were at the King's Gate.

It was a magnificent gate really, all gold wrought in intricate designs and standing taller than The Mountain himself- almost as tall as five Mountains, with hinges the size of wrist guards and three guards standing on either half of it. "Open the Gates!" screamed Robert, anxious to get back to his bed in King's Landing, fucking his whores and fathering more bastards.

The gates croaked like dying frogs as they were pushed open, their weight making the hinges cry. Jaime's horse hesitated, whinnying before nervously trotting through the gates after much coaxing and murmurs on Lyla's behalf.

"Welcome home," Jaime hummed to her, but she didn't seem very happy. Of course she wouldn't be happy though; Winterfell was her home, not King's Landing. Not the south. She was of Northern blood and she would never think of the South as home.

Lyla simply bobbed her head once and looked on to the queen's wheelhouse- the beautiful and obscenely ornate carriage of gilded metal and gold and red paints with cushions and forty draft horses- where her sisters, Arya and Sansa, slipped out and stretched their arms and legs, rolling their necks. They'd been confined there for nearly the whole month's ride.

Jaime slid from the saddle as best he could without hitting her with his leg and held his arms out for Lyla, who wrapped herself around him as he lifted her from her seat on the horse, holding her arms around his neck for a moment before touching her feet to the ground and stepping away, staggering slightly. He went to grab her arm but she held herself steady by using the horse for support. "Sturdy old thing," she murmured to it, as she patted its withers. She'd been in the saddle a month, surely she'd be tired, especially since they'd stopped only thrice in the past week of traveling, and he wondered if she would be able to walk to the Tower of the Hand on her own.

"Lyla!" came two voices meshed into one, and a flash of fiery and chestnut colored curls ran by in a blur, the two young Stark girls leaping onto their sister, who held them close with her two arms.

She'd taken her cast and sling off the night after Jaime had found Nymeria at the Maester's insistence, though he noticed it still pained her to use her right arm. "Go see to our wolves. I'll be along soon." She kissed their cheeks, blue eyes meeting her youngest sister's grey with understanding before rising from her slight crouch and turning back to Jaime as the girls ran off. Arya bolted away wildly and Sansa with as much dignity as she could muster. "Thank you," she said softly, looking down. "For everything, truly."

Lyla's brows knit together when he kissed her cheek and he felt her breath warm on his neck, making him shudder. "I'm having dinner with my family," she whispered, blinking with wide eyes that were both full of curiosity and shock. "I have to go."

"Don't," Jaime slid his finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Let me show you around the Keep."

She smiled a little. "Tomorrow. I'll send Carinya when I'm ready to leave my chambers."

He watched as she left and wrapped Rose, her summer-brown direwolf, into a warm, tight embrace, murmuring to her and kissing her furry cheeks repeatedly. The two looked into each other's eyes for a moment and Jaime could feel the connection between them, as if it pulsed around him and tickled his skin.

The same connection radiated between the other Stark daughters and their wolves, and the Lannister watched in fascination for a few seconds before unlatching Lyla's horse's reins from his horse's saddle and handing both sets of leads to a nearby stable hand before making his way to the castle, wondering if anything had changed.

The castle was a bustle, busy and buzzing and blisteringly hot.

"Gods, don't they have wind in the South?" Lyla breathed, fanning her face with her hand as her sisters did, along with a few of the northern maids and guards, who unloaded their trunks and boxes into their three separate rooms. Mayhaps it truly was the south that was what burned through Lyla, or maybe it was her encounter with Jaime earlier.

She'd been taken off guard by his recent affections with her, confused and curious as to why he'd been taking to her so in the past week since he'd saved her and her sister's wolves- not that she minded really. He might have been calloused and a tad rough at times, but his touch was the same as Theon's laugh; utterly and impeccably comforting.

In the past week she'd been reclusive and closed in. Jaime was right in saying it was the Hound's fault Mycah died, rather hers, but she knew the monster felt no guilt. The bastard smirked when she tried to run the bloody sword through his back. The only thing that she had found solace in for the last week was Rose, but the queen wouldn't rest until the king, regretfully, leashed and caged the wolves until they'd reached the capitol.

After she'd left Jaime to go see to Rose and her sisters, she'd been whisked away to the Tower of the Hand by Septa Mordane and Carinya, her father having been taken to a Small Council meeting right as he entered the city. She barely heard his promise to join them for supper.

"Lyla, these are your chambers. Arya and Sansa, yours are across the hall and down the hall; Jeya and Nitha, take the girls to their rooms." Carinya was in her element in the castle, commanding and leading as though she were the head of the staff in the Keep.

"Have you been a handmaid long?" Lyla asked her as the two entered her room. "Oh," she whispered, blinking. The floors were stone and grey, the four-post feather bed covered in blankets and pillows of white and grey and black, tapestries with her House sigil on either side of the bed and rugs of wolf and bear pelts alike covering the ground and bed. The brazier wasn't lit, thank the heavens, and all the windows were open, window shades of light grey silk covering the sunlight ever so slightly, making a silver-tinted film around the room.

Rose hopped onto the bed and Lyla followed, savoring the feel of a real bed under her back. "Oh," she whispered again, though it was more of a moan.

"I've not," replied Carinya to her previous question. The lady's maid did not conceal the laughter in her voice very well. "Your trunks have been unpacked and there won't be need of you or the girls for hours. Shall I come back and wake you then?"

The thought was luxurious, and Lyla was so desperate to accept that she almost sent the maid away right then, but she felt dirty and sore, and her arm needed rewrapped, so instead she sighed and asked for bathing water and some of the topical that Maester Frenken had given her on the ride on the King's Road.

"Yes, m'lady." Carinya curtsied and promptly left.

Lyla had a few moments to herself. She sighed. The trip was perilous and tough, and she'd never ridden for so long aback a horse- not even to Highgarden, which was a two weeks ride rather four because of the pace she'd set- and as she relaxed into the pelts that covered the feather bed, she felt her eyelids grow heavy and rolled onto her side, waiting.

In her time alone, she couldn't help but think of what Jaime was doing right then and there.

She still hadn't properly thanked him for saving the lives of Rose, Lady and even Nymeria, which had meant more to her than anything. Honestly, Lyla had no idea what to say, or how to show how much she appreciated what he'd done, and figured she'd never make it even between them now; she was almost positive there was nothing he could ever have that would even come close to the bond she shared with her wolf. At the thought, she peered down through her lashes at the beast, and laughed.

"You can go to sleep, silly wolf," she murmured to Rose, who looked to be fighting to keep her warm brown eyes open. Almost immediately, the wolf pounced over her to the other side of the bed and panted excitedly, wagging her tail as she rolled around on the pillows like they were the most velvety things she'd ever felt. "Silly, silly wolf."

Lyla laughed and patted Rose's flank just as a pair of girls- Jeya and Nitha- came in, one with arms full of topical treatments and thin ribbons to rewrap her arm, and the other with two buckets- one in each hand. She watched intently as the steam danced above them. It had been too long since she'd had a proper bath.

"This way, m'lady," said the taller, thinner one, who had spidery long black lashes rimming her familiar blue eyes. Her long black hair was wrapped and braided into the southern style. Jeya. The other, who looked nearly identical only shorter and slightly thicker, followed them into the bathroom and placed the ribbons and creams on the nearest table. Nitha.

They filled the tub- a grand thing of marble that was installed into the wall with tiles of white all around and fluffy towels and robes dotting each table- and scented it with the rosewater perfumes Lyla had brought from Winterfell, preparing the soap for her body and hair.

If the feeling of the feather bed was luxurious, the feeling of the steaming scented bath water was godssent. Lyla lowered her naked self into the tub, feeling it seep into every cell of her skin, moaning in relief. Surely no nap could feel as good as slipping into that water after a month's long ride. She hummed subconsciously as Jeya and Nitha- obviously bastards of the King- began scrubbing her pink and lathering her hair, rinsing it over and over.

They cleaned her right arm, Nitha wrapping thin wispy ribbons over the nearly healed but still painful wound as Jeya beckoned her from the water and patted her dry with a thick, soft towel, afterwards cloaked her in an even softer robe. It felt nice to be waited on, but she got the urge to dress herself in the thin southron gown of dark grey and white lining, and to brush her own hair out. It was hard to bite her tongue and let others deal with those things. She did, however, slip her boots on herself, though Jeya and Nitha both insisted she wear slippers for the comfort of her feet, but Lyla would feel more uncomfortable walking down the halls and sounding like a trotting horse than if she'd just worn her clean black boots.

Carinya came in and plaited her hair, Rose snoring loudly on the bed behind them before Lyla snapped her fingers and whistled for the wolf to follow her and the maid from the room- because before she knew it, it was time for supper.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

King's Landing was nothing like Winterfell, Lyla thought as she watched the sky melt from onyx to sapphire, the moon and sun dancing amidst the fading stars. King's Landing was hot and smelly and dirty, where Winterfell was cool and sweet and clean. Even then, with the light breeze that tickled at her cheeks and morning light only just beginning to spill like molten gold over the capitol, it was as hot as the warmest summer day she could remember in the North.

Yet, aside from the badgering heat and the stench of disease, the eldest Stark daughter found a beauty in the capitol unknown to Winterfell. There were fabrics of silk and velvet and even Myrish lace decorating the windows and walls and even the ladies, as they paraded about the Red Keep on the arms of their lords. They moved as though they were water, fluid and quick; like they'd been doing it their whole lives.

The knights were decked in gilded armor of all colors; gold, white, blue, red. She'd even seen Lord Renly Baratheon prancing around in his armor of green, laughing and jesting with another knight, Ser Barristan Selmy, adorned in his Kingsguard armor of gold with a flowing white cloak. The same set of armor that Jaime had worn the first time she'd set eyes on him

So much had changed regarding Lyla's feelings for Jaime since the day he arrived in Winterfell. At first she had been cautious yet kind, but as the weeks dragged on, their relationship changed to something that she'd never experienced before. It wasn't love that she felt for Jaime, at least not yet, but there was something growing between them that was undeniable.

A knock at the door pulled Lyla from her thoughts and she coughed in surprise, looking to where Rose jumped up and bared her teeth at the door. The knock sounded again. Who would be at her chambers so early? She pulled the robe fully over her, sliding her arms through it and pulling it closed. "Come in," she called.

A maid waltzed in, a highborn handmaid clearly, with long locks of ash-brown pulled up into a twisted, braided, wrapped thing atop her head with two thin plaits that fell to the girl's shapeless waist, which was covered with a silken fabric of green with a tall belt of gilded gold, wrought in floral designs that matched her rose hairpin and necklace. The girl wasn't ugly; in fact, she was rather pretty. Her eyes were large and hazel, thin ashy brows above them with a long, slender nose and a prominent cupid's bow on her upper lip while the bottom was thin and rounded.

"Good morning, my lady." She curtsied and shot nervous looks to Rose, who stopped baring her teeth but held a cold stare. "I was told to come help you dress. The queen has requested your presence during her morning meal."

Lyla's brows furrows and she took a step sideways, closing distance between her and her direwolf. She always felt safer by Rose. "Why does the queen wish me to break my fast with her?" she asked, folding her arms cautiously.

Ever since the incident on the Trident, Cersei had taken all measures to avoid the eldest Stark girl, sneering at her and keeping the prince and princess, Tommen and Myrcella, away from her at all costs. Surely this was a mistake. Surely the queen hadn't requested Lyla- mayhaps Sansa or even Arya, but not Lyla.

"I don't know, my lady. Her Grace wouldn't say, and it's not my place to ask." The girl let herself in and closed the door, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. "It's so cold in here, my lady. Surly you'd like the windows closed-"

"No," Lyla said, shaking her head vigorously, russet curls swaying. "Leave the windows. It's warm. If you would like, I can give you one of my cloaks. But leave the windows, please."

The maid pursed her lips and nodded. "As you wish, my lady. And no, thank you. I'll be fine." She quickly looked over the Stark girl and hmm'ed, looking around the room until she found the closet, where she quickly flocked to, opening the doors and pensively regarding each gown before pulling out a long dark blue one of silks with sleeves shorter than Lyla was used to and a longer train than she would have thought comfortable.

Lyla raised a brow. "Why is it that the queen has instructed you to shuffle through my gowns?"

"She wants to know you'll be in comfortable dress, my lady, and not something too thick," the maid whispered shyly, looking down at her folded hands. Sansa would like this one, Lyla thought. Sansa always liked girls with propriety.

The dress was a wisp of a gown really, but in the southern heat, Lyla could hardly even stand to wear the robe that she still held close to her. "Bring it here," Lyla said, resigned. If she was to be in the south, she would have to dress like it, or melt away in her northern gowns.

The girl who wasn't really must of a girl, probably being three or four years Lyla's senior, smiled widely, revealing a set of pearly chicklet teeth, a small gap between the front two. She quickly took to work on disrobing the Stark daughter, pulling the thin silken gown up over her hips, careful not to bunch up the smallclothes she wore, and laced the back with a silver ribbon from the top of the vanity in her room.

As the maid began brushing through Lyla's curls, the young Stark wondered where in the Seven Kingdoms her own handmaid was. Since Jaime had appointed Carinya to her, the maid hardly left her alone. "Where is my handmaid?" she asked after the curiosity had finally eaten through her, not meaning to sound as rude as she probably did.

"Her grace sent me personally, that's all I know," said the maid, who stepped back and admired her work.

Lyla eyed at her reflection in the looking glass. "I don't see why she would send her own handmaid… Is this serious?" She wondered if it would just be her and the queen and immediately felt nervous, reaching for Rose and burying her fingers into the fur of her direwolf's back, sensing as the maid stepped even further back to allow the wolf to pad up to the side of Lyla's chair. Would Rose be okay? Did her father know about her meeting Cersei?

"My lady?" The young Stark's head snapped up and she noticed that the handmaid had moved to the door, gesturing. "It's time."

The walk to the Queen's solar was silent, for Rose had been left in Lyla's chamber with Jeya while Nitha went out to seek Carinya. Lyla didn't have much to say to the handmaid. The girl had turned submissive once they'd left her chambers anyways, so conversation wasn't necessarily in the cards.

"Come in," came a silken voice once the maid knocked on the door that led to Cersei's solar. The door was the twin to another; double oak doors two feet taller than Lyla, at least, with shined brass knobs and ruby lions painted onto both sides. The maid opened the door and Lyla swallowed, stepping in with caution.

"Your grace," she greeted, bowing her head but remaining standing, folding her hands in her lap. The queen was adorned in silks and wraps of gold and green with blue filigree and sapphires in her intricate gold crown, looking as beautiful and sparkly as the sun.

The queen gave her an alluring smile and gestured to the seat beside her. "Come, sit little wolf. Would you like some eggs? Perhaps honeyed chicken? Wine?"

Lyla raised a brow. She'd not been expecting this. She'd not been expecting kindness. "No, thank you." In truth, she was rather hungry, but with the nerves that fluttered in her stomach like butterflies, she didn't think she could keep it down. The queen could have brought her here to distract her while she had some sellsword or guard slaughter Rose in her chambers, or maybe to tell her that she was to be sent home. Winterfell, she thought wistfully, pursing her lips as she walked to where the queen patted the chair beside her, sitting and looking around the room.

It was beautiful but hot; the furniture was polished and oiled and there were extravagant chairs with high backs and long legs, velvets of red and gold with tassels of black hanging from the cushions. There were lounging couches of onyx and ruby with swirls of sunshine stitched into them and a long stretched table that looked nearly as beautiful as the desk that was to the far left of the chamber. "What is all of this about?" she asked, feeling green eyes hot on her.

"Your wedding of course, little wolf!" Cersei pulled Lyla's hands into her own, and she had to fight with all her strength not to rip them back.

"What do you mean? Jaime and I are not to be wed for months… years… What's so important about it?" Lyla raised a brow and held her chin higher, feeling as russet brown curls trickled like water down her shoulders, which were nearly bare from the way the gown's sleeves were designed. "Has the engagement been called off?"

She began to frown, looking down and pulling her hands from Cersei's. Not being Jaime's wife meant her travel to King's Landing was for naught, and that their budding relationship was nothing anymore. But Cersei's voice brought her out of her mind, away from the thoughts that were darkening her mood.

"Quite the opposite, in fact." The queen tossed her glittery golden hair over her shoulder and her smile tightened. "My father has petitioned the King to move your wedding date, little wolf- Something about wanting little lions around the Rock."

Lyla was taken aback. "How… How soon?" Though not being his wife was a sad thought to her, being his wife, at least so soon, was almost unthinkable still. They hardly knew each other and she was still young… "I'll still be able to… have children… in a few years."

Cersei raised a brow, emerald eyes- Jaime's emerald eyes- growing duller. "I would have thought you would be delighted. Any woman in the Seven Kingdoms would kill to marry my sweet brother. He's handsome and strong… Or do you not believe so, Lady Stark? Shall we marry him to a Tyrell instead?"

"No," she rushed, blue eyes wide. "I just… How soon is the wedding?" She knew not to expect kindness, so these harsh-meant words didn't faze her- well, perhaps in the slightest. Why would Tywin Lannister need heirs so soon?

The queen sipped wine from a gilded goblet encrusted with rubies and amethysts, sighing. "Father insists it be before the feast so we can celebrate it then. He's not so inclined to pay for two celebrations."

Lord Stark had told Lyla of the feast Robert wanted to hold in his honor for accepting the position of being Hand of the King over their first dinner together, but from what he said she'd expected the idea to be thrown out. "So soon?" she whispered under her breath, furrowing her brows. The feast was only a week away. A week, she thought, biting her lip. And he wants it before the feast. That's only a matter of days…

"Your grace, I don't have a dress. And there's no way anyone could plan a whole wedding…"

"…Ah, little wolf, you underestimate me." Cersei tilted her head to the side and smirked, but it looked misplaced. That was Jaime's smirk, not Cersei's, and she didn't wear it half as well as her brother. "Don't worry about anything. I'll take care of it all. A gift to my sister-to-be."

The sincerity of the queen's words was mixed with underlying hints, though of what Lyla could not tell. Everything was hitting her so quickly, first with the Trident and now with her wedding only days away- it was becoming overwhelming. "I need to take a walk," she whispered, more to herself than to the queen, who was mindlessly sipping on more wine. "Your grace, if you would excuse me. I need air." The words were bitter on her tongue but Cersei seemed not to notice.

"Not yet, little wolf. We've still business to discuss." The queen smiled toothily then, chuckling to herself. What was so funny? "My father is coming down from Harrenhal for the wedding. He'll be here in two days' time and you're to have dinner with us the night before your wedding. I'll send Irys to measure you. We can't have the future Lady of Casterly Rock running around in furs and wool."

Lyla felt her brow arch. "I have a few southern dresses, your grace."

"They're so dated I would think my grandmother wore them." Cersei rolled her eyes dully and sighed. "They'll be sent after the wedding of course, assuming you're here long after. Father is insisting on you and Jaime leaving for Casterly Rock within the fortnight."

What? Lyla's breathing hitched and she looked down at her twiddling thumbs. She was to get married in a matter of days and leave her family only weeks after? "That's ridiculous," she gasped, brows knitting together. "How is it that I don't have a say in this? I'm the bride and yet I hadn't even a clue when I'm to be married?" She rose, frightened of… everything. Angry? And sad. The emotions washed through her like waves.

Cersei looked at her, amazed. "If only it were you that had married Robert." She sighed. "Ours is the fury. Ha." She took a long swig from her goblet and set it down, folding her hands. "Unfortunately I was bestowed with that honor, though. And you, you're to marry my brother. So, as future sister of the queen and Lady of the Rock, I suggest-" she gestured to Lyla's standing figure, "-you stop acting like a childand start acting like the woman you are. You are a woman, are you not?"

A blush tickled at her cheeks and Lyla held her chin higher. "I am." Her last mooncycle had been the week after Jaime had reopened her stitches. She chose not to acknowledge Cersei's comment of her acting like a child and slowly sat back down. She was acting like a child, or rash at the very least.

"And a maid still, I assume? It wouldn't be fit to marry my brother to a whore."

"Cersei!" Both of their heads snapped to the door, and Lyla felt a flood of relief. "This woman is to be my wife, and yet you're degrading her like this?" Jaime swept into the room, golden brows knit together and green eyes ablaze.

There was no doubt that Lyla would have spiraled that conversation into oblivion, so she couldn't help but feel grateful for Jaime cutting in. Readily she accepted his hand as he neared her, squeezing it until she was white-knuckled.

Cersei huffed and stood, stepping away from her brother to the other side of the table, as though his glare terrified her. It was like she'd never seen him angry. "I was just welcoming her into the family, brother," she said sweetly, testing a smile on her thick lips. "Simply speaking sister to sister."

Jaime obviously wasn't about to let his anger go though, and took a step in front of Lyla, but she pushed from behind him to stand at his side. "Calm," She whispered to him, feeling his fingers twitch, thumb rubbing over her knuckles softly in contrary to his glare.

He looked down at her, and Lyla could understand then why Cersei decided to stand on the other side of the table. Jaime's stare was like wildfire; hot and menacing. "Come on," he urged, tugging at her hand as he made to leave.

"Jaime!" Cersei called after them as they left, but Jaime didn't look back, and Lyla didn't care to see the rage on the queen's face. It would have been too much.

She heard the queen hiss something unintelligible after they left, and she must have thrown a cup or a vase, for the rippling sounds of shattering glass echoed in the corridors that Jaime led Lyla through.

"Why did you get so angry?" she asked as soon as they were far enough away from Cersei's solar, stopping and raising a brow.

Jaime sighed before turning, looking down on her. His expression softened as his eyes fell upon her, seeming to drink in the sight before him. "They were ludicrous questions, and no lady should stand to be accused of them."

"Oh." Lyla released his hand and looked downcast, recalling the bawdy curiosities of the queen, who had, indirectly, called her a whore. Her mind switched to Lancel and she pursed her lips. He made her feel like she were from a brothel, and with the way she reacted- so helpless and weak- she believed she deserved to feel that way. When she expressed such feelings to Jaime, though, his eyes darkened with anger once again.

"You're not a whore, Lyla." His words were firm and strong. His eyes were hooded and dark and his expression was fierce, gold hair becoming as shiny as his polished Kingsguard armor as the sun hit it just right, pouring through the window like water from a pitcher.

Lyla took a step closer to him. "You've always been kind to me…" she murmured, blue eyes narrowed as they desperately searched his green for answers. "Ever since I first helped you from the ground in Winterfell you've been nothing but nice. Why?" The question had been lingering in her mind for the past few days that she'd been alone in her chamber recuperating from the journey, and this seemed as good a time as any to ask it.

At first Jaime just stared at her with furrowed brows, as if the answer was so obvious, but she only tilted her head, holding her arms tighter to her body. It was only then that he'd spoken, taking a deep breath and clearing his throat. "Back in Winterfell, the day after your brother fell and I kissed you, I heard you talking in the stables with the Greyjoy boy. I heard it when you said you would marry me to keep your sisters safe at the capitol; to be able to watch them.

"It was the most endearing thing I'd ever heard, and went to my brother for advice. I wanted to make up for being so inconsiderate when I kissed you, you see, and do you know what he told me? He told me to just that once be the knight I always wanted to be. It did not take long to realize that by being the knight I always wanted to be, I must treat you like the lady you are." Jaime looked down, sighing. "When Lancel tried advancing on you, I kept trying to picture how all the knights I idolized as a boy would react… I didn't even realize I hit him until after it already happened."

Jaime had been taking short steps closer to her until Lyla could feel his breath on her hair, the warmth burning her like the southern heat never could. It was like fire on her scalp, and she could feel single strands of curls twitching from his breath. "And the moment you shined the light on what I did to Aerys Targaryen in the courtyard in Winterfell," he whispered, leaning down so their foreheads met, "is when I realized how much I liked being that knight. Your knight."

Lyla was already overcome with the wedding and the pending move to Casterly Rock, and now there Jaime was, the Kingslayer, practically spilling his heart out, and his was so, so close. "My knight," she echoed in a whisper, tasting the words on her tongue. They were almost sweet. "My knight."

He nodded, causing where their foreheads met to move slightly. "Your knight."

Lyla tilted her head up, feeling as her eyes grew more and more hooded, feeling as her heart beat like drums in her chest. Nervously, she wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her head ever so slightly until their lips met.

It was unsure and slow, their mouths just barely moving, and Lyla wondered if she was doing something wrong, but then Jaime wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer and she could feel the cool expanse of his armor through her thin silken gown.

He increased both the speed and intensity of their kiss, long calloused fingers reaching up and fisting into her hair, and Lyla followed his lead, fingering his golden curls cautiously. It was dangerous ground she was treading, it seemed, for she'd never kissed anyone but Jaime, and never had it been like this. Never had it been so passionate and, well, wanted- because no, Lyla Stark could not in her right mind deny the deep and utter want she was feeling as he moved his lips against hers so attentively, so lively. It was a straight rush to her head.

They kept kissing until Lyla pulled away, as breathless and startled as Jaime. They were in the halls of the Red Keep for anyone to see, and yet she found herself without a care. Her blue eyes met his green through thick lashes and he removed a hand from her hair to drag it up to her cheek, rubbing her bottom lip- swollen and deep pink, much like his own- with his thumb.

Lyla lay in bed that night staring at her ceiling, listening to Rose snore at her side. Her lips still tingled and her heart was still pounding like horse hooves, and as she closed her eyes Jaime's smirking face played through her mind. He would be the death of her, she thought, a small smile gracing her lips.

He would be her husband in only days, and yet would be the death of her. Lyla smiled fully to herself now, tugging the covers over her shoulders and turning on her side, realizing that the wedding, less than a week away, seemed less and less scary by the second. It wouldn't be the perfect marriage, she supposed. They were still new to each other and Lyla was still young, but now she at least knew he would try for as long as she did. I will try, she decided before letting sleep take her. I will try.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Sunlight glittered through silken onyx drapes, morning birds sang their beautiful songs and the sound of music filled the air; Harps, lyres, flutes, drums, all a symphony that had been kept a constant since before dawn.

The hall was being cleaned, stripped, and redecorated with the Lannister colors in honor of the wedding; floors were polished until they shone gold, walls were covered in ruby cloth and the Lannister House banners were hung all around; a roaring golden lion on a field of red. As befit of a Lannister wedding, Lyla thought from where she sat in the hall beside her father, watching the surrounding area dissolve into a lion's den.

With the wedding only days away, it seemed the whole castle was working double time; both fulfilling their daily chores as well as new ones, like threading new tapestries or sewing her wedding gown among others that the queen ordered. Mostly rubies and golds and only one or two of her House colors, among a few of lavender, ivy, and the like. It was overwhelming, the wedding, and Jaime was being removed from the King's Guard that afternoon. In the midst of the madness, Lyla was glad she had time to spend with her father.

"I miss you," she said, leaning her head onto Lord Eddard's shoulder. He still smelled of the north, thank the gods, and somehow managed to wear most of his northern attire despite the heat. "I barely get to see you anymore."

He turned his head and smiled into her hair, kissing her forehead. "I miss you too, sweet girl. I'm sorry I've been so wrapped up."

Lyla scooted closer to her father and sighed, wrapping her arms around him. "It's not your fault, it's the king's. He's keeping you all to himself, it's not fair," she murmured into the sleeve of his tunic, laughing profusely as he tickled at her sides.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" he asked her, serious now as he raised a brow. She pulled away and rested her elbow on the table, chin on her open palm.

"No," she answered, looking away. She couldn't be sure of much now, with everything that was going on, but it didn't matter much anyways. There was no backing out this late, and the kiss that she and Jaime shared in the hall… She wasn't sure if she would make a good wife, in any measure, but she would try. That much she was sure of. "I'll be ready when the time comes, father," she said, looking back to her father. "I have to be."

Lord Eddard gave her a solemn nod, sighing. "I know," he said. "You're just like your mother when you say things like that. She was never sure of anything until it happened, but it always worked out."

Her father's voice was slick with longing, a perfect match to the wistful look in his sleet grey eyes. She knew he missed her mother, Lady Catelyn. It was written all over his face, and though she had been bitter to Lyla since Bran's fall, the eldest Stark daughter missed her mother too. "I always thought she'd be there," she confessed, frowning slightly. "To help me get dressed and brush my hair… She always loved to brush my hair."

An arm reached around her shoulders and Lyla molded into her father's embrace, closing her eyes and feeling his chest rise and fall. "I'll be there, sweet girl," he said, and she could feel his warm breath on her hair. "Your sisters too. And the wolves."

His attempts at reassuring her that everything would be fine weren't going to waste, as Lyla relished in his words, nodding. It had been so long since she and her father talked, and hearing him try and comfort her was better than Theon's laugh or even Jaime's smirk. "I love you, father," she whispered to him, wrapping her arms around his middle and holding him for a moment as he placed another kiss on her forehead.

"I love you too, wild wolf of mine," said her father, who didn't make fast to untangle himself from her as footsteps neared them, and they both sighed when Jory spoke.

"I'm sorry, my lord, but the king has called upon you." He bowed to Lyla and gave her a wary smile before looking back to her father. "He said it was urgent."

"How urgent that it cannot wait?"

Jory's already tight smile thinned. "Very, sire," he said.

"Very well." Lord Eddard sighed deeply, and for the first time, Lyla noticed the tired expression that was creeping into the worry lines around his eyes and mouth. "Jory, why don't you go see about waking Sansa. Lyla, might you wake Arya?"

Lyla nodded, giving her father a kiss on the cheek before rising and helping him up. "I'll wake her, no worries."

Lord Eddard gave his daughter a short nod and left, Jory on his heels until he turned and trailed up the long, curling staircase that led to the Tower of the Hand. Lyla followed them with her eyes, tensing as they landed on a certain pair of green irises that were already watching her.

Jaime Lannister smiled as he neared her, running a hand through his golden hair. "Good morning," he murmured, pulling her in for a kiss. Lyla turned though, so his lips pressed against her cheek.

"Not here." She pulled away and raised a brow, though her lips curled into a betraying smie as she intertwined her fingers through his. "Good morning."

"You worry too much." He leaned in and kissed her cheek again, smirking. "We're getting married, I'm sure these maids won't mind seeing our intimacy."

"I would mind," Lyla sighed exasperatedly, but her smile did not fade. "I'm going to wake up my sister, I'll see you at the ceremony," she said, moving away from him.

He was unrelenting though, as he pulled her back to him and held his arm out for her, "I'll walk you."

There was a rustling behind Arya's door, and Lyla knocked lightly, hoping that it was only her sister in there.

"Go away," Arya called from inside the room, and Lyla looked up at Jaime, if only to see the obscene smirk at her younger sister's impropriety.

"Arya, open the door," Lyla said, leaning against the wood until, defeated, she heard her sister sigh and unbolt the door, opening it for her. "May I come in?" she asked, surprised that her sister was already up and dressed.

Her sister had styled her hair the northern way, double braids wrapped into a loose bun behind her neck, a simple thin woolen gown of grey pulled over her. There was a glint by her waist and Lyla looked down, brows climbing higher. "Whose sword is that?" she asked, pressing her fingertips to the blades steel.

"Mine," Arya said impassively.

"Give it here," said the eldest Stark daughter, holding her hand out, palm up, unaware of Jaime's presence in the doorway now.

Arya handed her the sword and Lyla moved towards the fire to get a better look at it. The mark was so familiar… "I know this maker's mark," she said, glancing over to Arya. "This is Mikken's work."

"This is no toy," said Jaime as he closed the door behind him, stepping in and inspecting the blade over Lyla's shoulder. "Little lady's shouldn't play with swords."

Arya frowned and rolled her eyes. "I wasn't playing, and I don't want to be a lady."

Lyla smiled at her sister, sitting on the trunk at the foot of her tiny bed. "Come here," she said, patting the place beside her. "What would you want with this?" she asked, admiring the gleam of the castle forged steel as her eyes lingered back to the blade. She could see her bright Tully eyes in the reflection, and felt her brows knit together; where they really that blue?

"It's called Needle," Arya said, pulling her sister from her thoughts.

"Hm, a blade with a name." Jaime smiled down on the sisters, and Arya eyed him for a moment before looking back to Lyla.

"And who were you hoping to skewer with Needle? Sansa, perhaps?" Lyla wrapped her arm over her sister's shoulders, smiling as she felt the girl lean into her.

"Do you know the first thing about sword fighting?" Jaime asked, golden brow raised.

Arya grinned. "Sick them with the pointy end."

Lyla and Jaime both fell into laughter. "That's the essence of it," Lyla said, fingering the pommel of the sword.

"I was trying to learn," Arya said, looking only at Jaime then. "I asked Mycah to practice with me…" The girl looked away for a moment, only to drag her stare right back to the Lannister that now sat on the floor beside her, giving the youngest Stark daughter his full attention. "I asked him… It was my fault."

"Oh, no, no sweet girl. No, no." Jaime placed a concerned hand over Arya's folded two, looking down at her sadly. "You didn't kill that butcher's boy."

Arya sighed. "I hate all of them," she said, clear as day, fire burning behind her eyes of stone. "The Hound, the queen and the king. And Joffrey and Sansa!"

"Sansa was dragged before the king and queen and asked to call the Prince a liar." Lyla placed a hand on her sister's cheek, forcing her to look her in the eyes.

"I was too! He is a liar."

"Shhh, darling, listen to me," Lyla kissed her sister's forehead, sighing. "Sansa will be married to Joffrey someday. She cannot betray him. She must take his side, even if he's wrong."

"But how can you let her marry someone like that? How can father let her marry someone like that?"

Lyla pursed her lips. "Look at me. You're a Stark of Winterfell, you know our words."

"Winter is coming."

"You were born in the long summer; you've never known anything else. But now, winter is truly coming, and in the winter, we must protect ourselves. Look after one another. Sansa is your sister."

Arya looked defeated, brows furrowing as her eyes flickered to Jaime for the quickest moment. "I don't hate her," she admitted solemnly. "Not really."

"I don't want to frighten you," Jaime said from his spot in the floor, hand still over Arya's. "But you've come to a dangerous place."

Lyla nodded in agreement. "We cannot fight a war amongst ourselves right now."

Arya looked down, frowning, and Lyla sighed again. Arya would never be the lady Sansa strived to be; would never want to be that. There was no point in taking from Arya what would end up being her only vice here in the capitol. I came here to keep them safe, and should I leave soon, I want them to be able to protect themselves. "Go on," she said softly, holding out the pommel of the blade. "It's yours."

"I can keep it?" Arya brightened up immediately as she grabbed the sword's hilt, holding it up proudly.

"Try not to stab your sister with it," Jaime mused, and Arya affectionately glared at him, punching his arm as hard as her tiny fists could.

Lyla grinned and placed one last kiss on the crown of her sister's head. "I'll have to tell father. If you're going to own a sword, you've got to know how to use it." She watched as her sister swung and swung, holding it out as if to challenge her. They shared a giggle as they did when they were just children, and Arya smiled truly at her sister.

"Thank you, Lya."

She nodded, smile curling on her lips. "Always, little sister."

Jaime stepped from the room and Arya gingerly placed the sword on the trunk before jumping into Lyla's arms, apologizing when the brunette winced at the contact with her right forearm.

"Are you really marrying him, Lyla?" asked Arya as she held on tighter.

Lyla stepped back to accommodate the weight of her thin little sister and chuckled. "I am," she said simply, nodding.

Arya pulled back just enough so that Lyla could see her face, eyes- both Tully blue and Stark grey- locked on one another. "He better treat you right. Or else I may have to stab him with Needle."

Lyla grinned and set her sister on the floor, "If he doesn't, I might just have to let you."

After Jaime shut the door behind them, he'd given her a knowing grin. "I dare say she's wilder than any wolf," he jested, earning him an elbow to the ribs. Lyla smirked at her victory when Jaime rubbed his side, glad he wasn't clad in his armor until the ceremony. "Not that it's a bad thing, really. I admire her spirit."

"As do I. She'll be remarkable when she grows up." Lyla folded her hands around Jaime's arm as he held it out and they began walking back to the hall, but he pulled her into a divot in wall, shadowed and hidden from the rest of the tower it seemed.

"Just like you," he said, voice becoming a rasp as he lowered his head and claimed her lips as his own.

This kiss was nothing like the one they'd shared in the hall the previous day. This kiss was insistent and quick and feverish, full of want and need. A noise that was comparable to a moan rippled through Lyla's throat as his tongue flicked across the part of her lips, and she slowly opened her mouth for him.

He tasted like wine and the same sugary something that she couldn't place since their first kiss. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers in his hair, unintentionally deepening their kiss as she pulled him closer to her. She liked the feel of his hands tugging at the silks that covered her waist, the feel of his callused fingers covering every inch of her back and fisting into her masses of unruly brown curls. It was all so much, yet such a release from all the other stresses that cluttered her life in the capitol.

When they kissed, she didn't have time to think about their wedding or the gasps of shock from Sansa and Septa Mordane at the impropriety of the situation should they have been caught; not even of his father arriving only the next day and his being de-knighted only minutes from then. Not even the southron heat affected her as their lips touch. No, none of that swam through her mind. Only the need of his deft touch, of his tongue dancing with hers.

Lyla pulled away for a moment to catch her breath and almost laughed at Jaime's expression. He looked so helpless; golden curls askew and lips swollen and pink, panting as his hands slid to cup her cheeks.

"We have to go," she whispered, resting her head on his chest as his hands smoothed over her curls. "You'll be late for your own ceremony."

She could feel Jaime shrug and smiled into his chest, listening to his quick-paced heartbeat. "Being disowned from the Kingsguard." He scoffed, sighing, warm breath seeping through her ringlets and onto her scalp. "I'd much rather be here, with you."

"In the shadows of a hallway?" She grinned cattishly as she looked up at him, kissing his cheek. "Come on," she said, running her fingers through his hair and pursing her lips to sooth the color that vividly ran through them.

She almost had to pull him from the shadows, but eventually he came willingly enough, agreeing to go ahead of her so she could meet with Sansa, Jory, and Arya; and to cloak suspicions of their whereabouts.

"I'll see you soon," he murmured into her ear before he left with a goofy smile on his lips that she'd never seen before. Nodding, she repeated the same and watched him go, touching her bottom lip tenderly.

"What a scene."

Lyla turned and raised her brow, narrowing her eyes. "Petyr Baelish." She folded her arms and took a step away from him, looking behind her shoulder to see Jaime had already gone. Her eyes lingered on the ground for a moment before returning to the man whose presence gave Lyla chills.

He had a pointed beard and wasn't as tall as her father or Jaime, and held the cruelest of smirks on his thin lips. "Oh don't be ashamed, Lady Stark. Moments between a man and his lady wife are meant to be passionate," Petyr smiled tighter then, "But you're not married yet, no? Shame."

"Shame?" Lyla took yet another step back as he stepped forward. "We're to be married in a matter of days, I don't see the problem in us being… passionate."

Petyr looked out one of the windows, smile never creeping from his lips, beard unmoving in the slight breeze that danced through the curtains. "Mayhaps I'm only warning you," said the man that might be shorter than even Lyla herself.

"Warning me of what?" questioned Lyla.

"Little birds chirp the strangest of things, Lady Stark," he said, holding his hands up as if in defeat, shrugging softly. His strange southron garb shook with his movement and Lyla held her chin higher in defiance to him.

"I know you, Lord Baelish, and I'm not so naïve as you may have been led to believe. I don't trust you. I see no reason to continue this conversation." She turned and as if on cue, Sansa and Septa Mordane came strutting down the halls, Jory at their heels. They seemed engrossed in their small talk and Lyla sighed in relief that she was finally no longer alone with this strange, small man. "Your birds may chirp as they like, Lord Baelish. I will not care to hear."

With that, Lyla left to meet with her sister. It had been too long since she'd talked with Sansa.

The ceremony had been tedious.

It lasted for over three hours, and the High Septon had poured too much oil over Jaime and his cloak almost caught aflame twice. It would have been ironic really, to save the realm from the Targaryen fire only to perish by fire lit from lavender oil the color of their mad eyes.

After it had ended Lyla had been whisked away, before should could see Jaime again, to dine with the highborn ladies and their children with Sansa while Arya went to speak with Jory, who had been instructed to take her to bed. Their father was off with the small council not long after the oil had been mopped from the ground.

It had been a busy day and Lyla was tired, so she and Sansa retired, as Sansa had no chaperone but her elder sister and wasn't allowed to stay on her own; Lyla didn't like their influence on her sweet sister.

Instead of walking her sister to her room and returning to her own again, Lyla had instructed Carinya- who had been off buying silks and jewels for her gown the previous day, at the queen's request- to bring Lady to her room and have Sansa spend the night with her in her chambers.

"It's been so long since we've had a sleepover," Sansa whispered from where she slept beside her sister, curled to face her.

Lyla smiled, the gentle silver moonlight illuminating their features from where it poured out of the windows across the room. The windows were all open, letting a stiff breeze caress the two sisters every once in a while, and they'd both been grateful for it. "I've missed you, Sansa," she whispered back. "I'm sorry I don't spend much time with you, sister."

Sansa shook her head softly, fiery curls splaying out around her shoulders and on the pillow her head rested on. Oh how Lyla was jealous of her sister's lovely ruby curls, frowning as a strand of her own russet ringlets fell in her face. Sansa wiped the stray curl away and tucked it behind her sister's ear. "It's alright. I've enjoyed spending time with Jeyne and Lady."

Both pairs of Tully eyes switched to the direwolves then, who rested directly below the windows, as if to keep as cold as they could. Lady was resting with her head on her paws, laying in a perfect line with her tail wrapping around her legs as Rose sprawled on her back, all four legs in the air, head on the ground with one ear relaxed on the ground and one flopped over itself.

They giggled quietly and Sansa pulled closer to her elder sister, resting her head over her folded arm. "Are you scared?" she asked, blue eyes burning with curiosity and exhaustion.

"I am," Lyla answered truthfully, but smiled. "Remember how mother told us that love was gradual? That you had to build it day by day?" Sansa nodded eagerly, smiling at her memory. "Well that's what I'm working on doing with Jaime."

"You love him?" Sansa's eyes were wide, silver moonlight making them look just as Stark as Arya's eyes were.

Lyla snickered, shaking her head, "I don't know. I don't think I do. Not yet. But I want to."

Sansa smiled warmly. "I want you to, too," she said. "He's so handsome and valiant and wonderful." Yawning, the red haired Stark daughter closed her eyes, huddling tighter into the furs that Lyla had wrapped around them. "Goodnight, Lyla," she murmured, voice slick with sleep.

"Goodnight, Sansa," Lyla whispered, but by then, her sister had already drifted into a soft slumber, and so Lyla closed her eyes too, quickly dreaming of Jaime's lips on hers, world melting away as his laugh filled her ears.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Jaime wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight to his body. Her scent was of rosewater and honey, and her skin was as soft as silk. "So sweet," he murmured into her ear, nibbling at it and kissing down her neck.

Sunlight glittered against her skin, drenching her in a golden film. She was turned away from him, and her gentle snores filled his ears like a melody, hair hidden underneath a shroud of red-dyed wool.

"Wake up, sweet girl," he whispered to her, shaking her arm faintly. "Wake up, wake up."

The snores slowly died away, and Jaime raised a brow as warmth pooled around his body. Swinging the bed silks away, he looked down, dipping his fingers into the blood that seeped into the white linens. "S-sweet girl?" He shook her arm again, more violently, sitting up. "Wake up!" Her body rolled over, and he gasped, kicking away from the bed in shock, falling to the ground and scurrying to his feet.

There lay Lyla, blood pouring from her mouth, as well as pooling around her lower section, between her legs, which were spread out as though she were giving birth. Her pale skin suddenly turned ash grey, her hair tumbling from the red-dyed wool, crisping and dulling to a muddy silver shade. Livid blue eyes stared at him, tears falling from them as she raised her arm out for him, beckoning him to go to her.

"Jaime," she whispered hoarsely, bright eyes following him as he cautiously stepped closer to her, "Jaime, Jaime, Jaime."

He reached for her, "Lyla," he breathed, voice drenched in fear and question. When his fingers graced her cheek, the flesh melted away and she screamed. Jaime, Jaime, Jaime.

Jaime!

He woke with a start, flailing his arms and kicking his legs as hard as he could. He still smelled her, rosewater and honey, still felt the warmth of her skin underneath his own- but he could also smell the decay of her body as he touched her cheek, feel the sticky blood on his fingertips.

He forced himself to still, breathing deeply to steady his fast-paced heart. It was just a dream, it was just a dream, Jaime thought to himself as he sat up, running a hand through his hair.

It all seemed so real, looked so real. Jaime, Jaime, Jaime, she screamed, Jaime, Jaime, Jaime! He wanted to go to her, wanted comfort from her; to feel her in his arms. But at the same time, half of his mind craved Cersei.

He hadn't missed her particularly, certainly not after she'd questioned Lyla's maidenhood, but his sister knew him as no other did. Tyrion would have told him to bugger Cersei and let Lyla in, Jaime knew, and found himself starting to think the same way.

Lyla was chaste, fresh, and inviting, whereas Cersei was crude, blunt, and gods was she cold. As frigid as the ice she hated so much, with a sneer on her lips that was as unbecoming as it was judgmental. But Lyla… Jaime sighed, shaking his head as he rose from his four-post bed, rolling his neck as he called for a maid to enter his chamber.

The room was messy, as he always left it, and the bathroom wasn't much cleaner as he stepped into it, looking around. The marble flooring was smeared with dirt, clothes were scattered around the room, and it seemed the bronze tub- the second largest in the castle aside from Cersei and Robert's, at Cersei's insistence- was the cleanest thing in either room, and probably his solar, too.

He hadn't cared to clean up after himself and hadn't had the patience to let others do it for him, but as his mind cluttered with Lyla, he remembered that after the wedding, she was to live in his chambers with him.

"Ser?"

Jaime turned his head, pulling his robe closer to his body. A maid stood in the doorway, tall and willowy with sleek black hair done up in the southern way and big sapphire eyes staring. She was one of the girls that Eddard had assigned to his daughters. "You're a Stark maid, why are you here?"

She curtsied and kept her eyes down. "There were no others around, and I was finished with the Lady Lyla's chores for me, ser."

"Yes. Of course," Jaime said, trailing his fingertips along the rim of the tub. "Bring some water for a bath, and someone to help you clean. I'm afraid I've neglected that duty as of late." The girl nodded, leaving him to his thoughts.

Jaime wondered about his marriage as he waited for the maid to return. What would the wedding night be like? Would she stay with him in his room, or sleep in the room conjoined to his? Maybe she wouldn't want him after she'd had him. That was always Cersei's favorite part; the chase. No, Lyla isn't Cersei, he reminded himself firmly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

He still didn't know how exactly he felt about his little wolf girl. She was brilliant, funny, and most certainly beautiful, but he just couldn't bring himself to believe he loved her. At least not yet. He cared for her, that much was for sure, but Cersei was the only woman he'd ever loved, and honestly, he wasn't sure how to love anybody else.

The sound of sloshing water filled the room and Jaime looked up to see the maid from before with another that could have been her twin, if she weren't thicker and shorter. The taller one was carrying water pales, and the shorter one began busying herself with straightening up Jaime's chamber before he even asked their names. Quick work, he thought. The tall maid filled the tub and placed vials of scents on the counter across the room before collecting all the clothing and taking her leave, closing the door behind her.

Of all the scents, only one stood out to Jaime; rosewater. It was Lyla's scent. Mayhaps it had been placed there by chance, but Jaime wondered if Lyla had told the maid to put it there.

He smirked, picking the bottle up and popping the cork cap off with his thumb, holding it close to his nose as he inhaled the scent. It brought him back to the previous day; quick paced and heavy breathing, hot skin, flushed cheeks, hands all over. The kisses he shared with Lyla were something that he never experienced, even with Cersei.

With Cersei, every kiss was the same, from the very first to the very last he could remember sharing with her. They all felt fervent and quick, as though she were trying to be rid of him as soon as possible. But with Lyla it was so new. Every kiss was a difference experience; from slow and steady to heated and passionate.

Something in his body stirred, and Jaime figured it was time to bathe.

The afternoon sun glimmered high in the pale sky, bright and shining in a glory that Jaime had always marveled at. The gardens around them were in full bloom, fountains spraying cool, crisp water into bowls of gold and copper alike.

After his bath, Jaime had dressed in his House Colors; a ruby doublet to match his golden trousers and swung a cloth-of-gold cloak around his shoulders, admiring the ruby lion that was embroidered onto it. He'd broken his fast with the children, Tommen, Myrcella, and Joffrey, and ran into Lyla not much later. He still hadn't told her about the dream, but her presence, knowing she was safe, was enough to still his fears and quell his worries.

"What if he doesn't like me?" she whispered to him, intertwining her fingers through his. He knew she meant Tywin; who else could she mean, as they stood at the King's Gate with Cersei, Eddard, and countless others, to greet him?

Jaime looked down at his betrothed and smiled, "He'll love you." Lyla was clad in his House colors as well, in a silken gown of blood red with gold accents and stitchwork, velvet curls brushed through with most of it pulled back into a loose plait, leaving her looking every bit a good southron lady. "Everybody does."

Lyla frowned. "I'm being serious, Jaime."

"I am too," he said, squeezing her hand. It was true; everybody that met Lyla fell in love with her, save Cersei and Joffrey, and though he couldn't say he loved her fully, Jaime was falling more each day.

The sounds of trumpets blaring marked that Tywin wasn't far from the gate, and Jaime suddenly felt uneasy. All his life Jaime had been pulled around by Cersei, placed here and forced there, and his father had always resented him for it, resulting in Jaime not seeing his father in years.

He glanced to Cersei for the first time that day, giving in to the need to see her face. They came into the world together, so she loved to remind him, and whether or not he still loved her, looking at her still gave him a regrettable strength. She stood with her head held high, chin to the cloudless blue sky, gold hair a tumble down her back. Her garb was surprisingly Baratheon; black with golden trimming, bearing a small wisp of a crown, near a replica of Robert's own, with onyx circling the base. Father wouldn't have his queen daughter parading around in her gowns of ruby and gold, now would he?

As the familiar sight of ruby plated guards turned the bend of the King's Road and neared the gates, Jaime felt Lyla tense beside him and looked back down at her. She tilted her head up no doubt to look taller, and stretched her back straighter. She's so small, he mused, leaning down slightly to kiss the crown of her head, smiling into her hair for a moment before running his thumb over her knuckles and turning back to the road, where he could faintly see his father.

Tywin was clad in a set of golden armor that shone brighter than the sun that loomed over head, the roaring ruby lion that graced the Lannister House banners painted decoratively on his breast plate. He looked tall and as regal as a king despite his age and thinned pale hair.

His father's pale green eyes browsed the welcoming party as he neared the King's Gate on his horse of white. He only glanced at Cersei, expression both of approval and disinterest, and gave a slight nod to his three grandchildren, who all stared at him excitedly. When his eyes met Eddard's, they raised their chins at each other.

It seemed that Tywin was saving his son for last, and when Jaime finally felt his father's hot gaze, he clenched his jaw. He couldn't rightly read the expression that his father held, not even when he inspected Lyla over, eying her head to toe, which only made Jaime more nervous. He could only imagine that the little bride of his felt meek as she stood barely at Jaime's shoulder, now directly before the man that was to be her goodfather, but she surprised him, as she so often did.

"Lord Tywin, I'm pleased to finally meet you. Ser Jaime speaks highly of you, as does everyone." Lyla donned a warm smile and as soon as Tywin was off of his stallion, she closed the distance between them, embracing him as though he were her father for true.

"Lady Lyla," Tywin greeted, bowing his head to hide the shock of her hug in his eyes.

"I hope your journey wasn't too taxing, my lord," said Lyla, retreating back to Jaime's side and taking his hand again. Her hand was warm and Jaime welcomed it, grinning down at her with a raised brow, wondering how she was able to be so bold to such an intimidating man.

Tywin shook his head, handing his reins to a stablehand, "It was fine, my lady," he replied, his eyes falling on Jaime then, and switching to Cersei not long after. "Your grace." He bowed his head politely, looking to the children.

"Hello, Grandfather!" Myrcella and Tommen squealed in equal excitement, their lovely smiles growing as, in his rare act of kindness, he knelt down and accepted their hugs. Had Lyla melted some of the ice that covered his heart? If Jaime weren't so tense, he might have laughed.

"Father," Jaime greeted as Cersei pulled Tywin in for a short embrace. "So good to see you again. I've missed you," she said, smiling her practiced queenly smile; the one that never seemed to reach her already dulling, bored green eyes.

Tywin and Eddard exchanged their pleasantries, as well as he and Joffrey, and before long Myrcella, Tommen, and Joffrey were escorted away by the queen and Eddard took his leave to see to business. It was just Lyla, Jaime, and Tywin.

"If you would follow me, my lord, I'll escort you to your chambers." Lyla smiled and took Tywin's arm as he hesitantly held it out for her, Jaime trailing slightly behind them.

"Very well," Tywin said, following the little wolf's lead as she walked through the Red Keep. "How have you been taking to the South, Lady Stark?"

Lyla looked up at him and her smile grew visibly tighter, "It's very warm, sire. Lovely city."

Tywin raised a brow, "Lovely? I suppose it could be. Has my son been treating you well?"

"Very," Lyla replied, craning her neck around to grin at Jaime toothily. She turned away all too quickly, though, and Jaime found he missed her face. "He's been very kind, Lord Tywin, I assure you."

"And my daughter?"

Lyla's step paused for a moment and Jaime tensed, remembering the conversation that he'd eaves dropped on two days passed rather well. However, she regained her composure and smiled again, "Her grace treats me as well as any queen would treat her brother's betrothed," she said, weighing her words carefully.

Tywin acknowledged her words with a nod and they stopped again, standing before a pair of double oak doors, dark stained with gilded metal handles. Jaime could tell that Cersei spared no expenses for her father. "It seems our time has come to a close for now, my lady. I'll see you at dinner," he said calmly.

It was Lyla's turn to raise a brow then, "I'm sorry, my lord? I was under the impression that I was dining with your family the night before the wedding."

Jaime stepped up and intertwined his fingers through hers, furrowing his brows. "Has the wedding been moved up again?" Wasn't it enough that they only had a few days to prepare? Setting it for the next day would be too much to handle.

"Well, I'm here, why not? The wedding will take place the day after tomorrow." With that, Tywin swept into his room, closing the door before either Jaime or Lyla could object.

Jaime stood there stunned, looking to a pair of lucid blue eyes that were already on him. Two days, Jaime thought absently. In just two days, the woman before him would be his wife. She would call himhusband and they would share a room, a life. A bed.

Without saying a word, Lyla sighed and leaned into him, laying her head against his chest, and Jaime wrapped his arms around her out of instinct, resting his chin on the top of her head.

Jaime knew why she needed comfort. He needed it too; more than he knew. They were still new to each other, having hardly known each other for three moons, and they were to marry in a matter of days. As he smoothed her hair with his right hand, his left clung to her waist for what seemed to be forever, soothed and serene with her in his arms. After a while, though, Lyla pulled away and gave him a confused smile.

"It'll all work out," she said, though her eyes were grave.

He nodded, lacing their fingers together once more, one hand cupping her cheek. "I know it will," he said, leaning down so their foreheads touched.

"I'm scared," Lyla admitted, and Jaime's brows furrowed. That was the last thing he expected her to say. But maybe it wasn't such an obscene notion, for Jaime, the Lion of Lannister, the Kingslayer, was scared too.

He straightened up and tugged lightly at her hand so she would follow him as he walked away from his father's chambers. "In years we'll laugh at how frightened we were, when we're old and grey at Casterly Rock with our babes surrounding us."

Lyla laughed slightly, and Jaime could feel she was looking up at him. "We'll have twenty babes," she mused, "Ten that look like you, and ten that look like me. They'll all be named Tywin."

They both laughed then, and Jaime kissed her temple casually. "I'd rather they all look like you," he murmured. "I rather like your looks."

"You're too kind," she insisted modestly, squeezing his hand. Jaime smiled and turned them around the corner until they reached the entrance to Jaime's favorite garden in the Keep, the Eden.

The garden looked stunning in the sunset's golden light. The terracotta tiles looked a mix of ruby and brown, scaling along a thin walkway and on the walls around them as he led her further into the depths. There were plush greens to act as a backdrop for the vibrant violets and magentas, with yellow poppies sprouting up all around them and roses climbing up the open-faced walls. They reached a slender bench and he waited for her to sit, allowing her time to view the garden around her in awe.

Remembering their conversation two days passed, Jaime felt the need to do something spontaneous, something out on a limb. He would do what the knights he looked up to as a boy would do, and he only hoped for the best as he knelt on one knee before her.

"Jaime?" She raised a brow and Jaime sighed at her beauty. The sunset's warm light caressed her like candlelight and illuminated her features, making her already startlingly blue eyes bluer.

"Lyla," he began, taking her two hands in his. "I know this isn't… ideal. Being forced into this with a man you hardly know…" He stopped for a moment, mind being dragged to Cersei, and how unhappy she was in her marriage to Robert. He hoped that Lyla wouldn't be half so unhappy. "These past few months, however, I find myself enjoying your company more than I ever dared hope."

She looked as wide eyed as a doe, brows raised in question. "What are you on about, Jaime?" she whispered, clearly perplexed.

"I'm asking you to be my wife because you want to," he said, watching as thought shrouded her eyes, her lips pursing.

Maybe he shouldn't have asked. Maybe he should have escorted her to her chamber and left her to herself until dinner came, but now it was too late to take anything back. Lyla looked down for a long while, biting her lip until it was white around her creamy teeth.

"You're serious?" she asked, eyes swinging back up to meet his, brows knit together as though she'd been lost in thought for years. He nodded, and she folded her arms. "You're asking for permission to have my hand?" When he nodded again, she let a tiny smile tickle at the corners of her mouth and though Jaime hadn't prepared himself for any specific answer, he was pleasantly surprised when she smiled and murmured, "okay."

As the sun's last rays poured over them, Lyla and Jaime shared a kiss new to both of them. Their tongues danced, their hands roamed, and their lips grew absurdly swollen; it was passion, need, and the pleasurable savory slowness that Jaime craved. Innocence- her innocence- drove him up the wall with need.

He turned and sat on the bench, pulling her onto his lap as he fisted into her masses of curls, plait now undone, drawing her lips back to his. "Beautiful," he murmured into her lips, kissing and nibbling and not feeling slightly ashamed of the quiet moans his throat ripped.

"Again, ser, you are too kind," she replied smoothly. He deepened the kiss, and in response she kissed back harder, hands cradling the back of his head as she worked to get even closer to him.

It was a kiss so intense that Jaime felt his member pulsing below his trousers and pulled away quickly, sliding her off of his lap. Lyla looked up at him confused and he kissed the tip of her nose, "It wouldn't do good to arrive at dinner looking like we'd just…"

"I understand," Lyla said, saving him from the explanation. She stood, smoothing her dress and desperately tried to detangle her curls with her fingers, but gave up, sighing in frustration as she bent down to pick up the ribbon that held her plait earlier.

"Let me," Jaime murmured, standing and running his fingers patiently through her russet ringlets, admiring how they shined even in the equilibrium of day and night. It didn't take long to rake the tangles from her hair and she didn't fuss once if it tugged or caught on his fingers, and he pulled the ribbon from under her hair and around it, making a single ponytail in the back. "You look lovely," he whispered in her ear.

She seemed to shiver as his breath caressed her ear and turned, smiling. She certainly looked kissed- swollen pink lips glistening slightly- but other than that and the fact that her hair was no longer plaited, she looked the same as before; completely beautiful.

Quickly, he smoothed out his doublet and ran his fingers through his hair until it was smooth, taking her hand and leading her from the gardens. Moonlight was beginning to twinkle in the horizon and dinner would be starting.

Jaime couldn't have been more bored.

He sat sandwiched between Cersei and Tywin while Lyla sat directly across from him, Tommen and Myrcella at her sides. Joffrey sat beside Cersei, and Jaime desperately wished that the empty seat beside Tywin held Tyrion, but it didn't.

"I'm so glad you joined us for dinner, Lady Lyla," Myrcella chirped, sipping on a glass of sweetmilk, bright green eyes locked on Lyla since she'd stepped foot into the queen's solar.

Lyla smiled and sipped some water politely, "Thank you, Princess. I'm rather glad I came myself. I've missed seeing you."

"I wish Rose could have come," Tommen sighed miserably, playing with the food on his plate.

"Tommen, there will be no talk of wolves at the table," Cersei reprimanded, chin held high as she looked down on her younger son. "Bad enough we must keep them in the capitol."

Jaime lifted his leg slightly so his foot touched Lyla's shin and she looked up at him, seeing the way he shook his head as if to say, "don't say anything."

They had been on like this for nearly an hour; Myrcella appraising Lyla, Lyla politely responding, Tommen moping, and Cersei hissing. It was a chain that never ended, even though their meal had by then.

"Cersei, why don't you have the children taken to bed?" Jaime suggested, nodding to the little Prince Tommen as he yawned as large as a lion roared.

"I'm not a child, I don't have to go," came a high-pitched voice, and nearly everyone rolled their eyes at Joffrey, who sat tallin his high velvet collar of Baratheon black, rimmed in gold. "Right mother? I'm a man."

"Not a man yet." Tywin raised a brow at the boy, and he scowled, about to retort, but Cersei hushed him by gracing her fingertips on the back of his hand.

"Hush, my sweet," she cooed, and Jaime didn't miss how Myrcella closed her eyes and leaned into the voice like it was the only way she'd even imagine getting attention from Cersei. Lyla was quick to reach over and wrap her hand around the princess's, though, which caused his golden girl to smile giddily.

"You'll be my favorite aunt, Lady Lyla. Even when Uncle Tyrion gets married, you'll always be my favorite." Myrcella beamed and leaned against Lyla's arm, causing Cersei to release a dark growl.

Tommen smiled up at Lyla despite his mother, and nodded, "Mine too. You'll be mine too."

Joffrey wasn't so easy to please, it seemed, for he sneered deeply. "She'll not be mine," He muttered childishly, "I hate her. She's a scab on her dirty northern family."

"Joffrey," Jaime growled. "Watch yourself, boy."

"I'm not a boy, I'm the crown prince! I'll be king!" Joffrey cried, wormy lips curling down.

"You're not king yet," Tywin's voice was strong and stern, though he never raised it. "You will apologize to the Lady Lyla, and then you will go to bed with your brother and sister. Should you refuse, I'll have Ser Meryn take you rather the maid, is that understood?"

Joffrey looked indignant, glaring furiously, but looked towards Lyla with a jerk of the head. "I'm sorry," he muttered before shoving from the table and rising, leaving with his cloak of gold swirling after him.

Myrcella and Tommen rose after their brother, and each pecked Lyla's cheek, making her grin toothily before she watched them retreat to their mother and kiss her cheeks too and leave with a maid following suit.

Cersei looked utterly shocked and upset that her younger children showed such a display of affection towards the woman they knew for little more than three moons turned, green eyes burning into wildfire as they landed on Lyla. Lyla, however, obliviously went on to nibble at her spiced cake dessert as though it never happened. A smart move, Jaime thought.

"Now that we're alone, I believe we should get down to the business of things," Tywin said, looking around the table.

Lyla looked up at his father and raised a brow. "Business? I never thought of marriage as business."

"Then you clearly haven't spent enough time in the south," Tywin said simply.

The northern girl seemed to want to be shocked, but wasn't as she nodded slowly, looking to Jaime for a split second before her pools-of-spring-water eyes swung back to Tywin. "I'm sure you heard from Cersei that I'm wanting grandchildren."

Jaime folded his arms across his chest and sat back. "A few children in a couple of years is only natural." He shrugged, looking to Lyla, who seemed just as relaxed as Cersei was on the subject.

In any case, Cersei was anything but relaxed. "How many did you have in mind?" she asked their father, voice straining.

Just as Tywin began answering, Jaime felt a hand sliding across his thigh and shuddered at the contact, but shoved his twin's hand away. "…At least. That's only reasonable."

"Three is fair…" Lyla gripped the arms of the chairs roughly until her knuckles looked like snow-capped mountains and she seemed to force her hands from the arms, folding them in her lap. Three children? That hardly seemed the business Tywin wanted to speak of. Jaime raised a brow at her and she pursed her lips just as the hand tickled its way back onto his thigh, higher and closer to his groin that time.

"I also wanted to discuss the move to Casterly Rock," Said Tywin, whose eyes were on Lyla. He's studying her, Jaime observed as he grabbed the hand in the nick of time, forcefully shoving it away once more. "I feel it would be easiest for you two, trying to conceive as you will be, to get the travel done early so that you don't have a pregnant Highborn Lady riding out with you or a babe crying and attracting raiders."

Lyla and Jaime both nodded, understanding, and Cersei's voice crawled back into the room, shaking slightly. "They should stay here, father. Raise the child in King's Landing where she or he will become savvy enough to survive this game of thrones."

"I'm not raising my child here," Lyla said adamantly, folding her arms forcefully.

"No, we're not," Jaime agreed, reaching a hand across the table to meet his betrothed's, stroking her knuckles with his thumb for a moment before recoiling his arm.

Tywin raised a brow, "I am your Lord," He said, "And should I say you go-"

"Lord Tywin, with all due respect, Jaime and I are grown and old enough to raise our child the way we feel fit, as you have. If we chose not to raise our babes here, we mean not to. I would do anything to protect my children, as you do." Lyla held eye contact with his father the whole time, jaw squared and clenched, head held high.

Jaime smiled and nodded to her and his father both, and he could feel Cersei shaking from where the arms of their chairs met. "I must agree father," He said.

There was a mutual look of understanding between Lyla and Tywin, and Jaime sighed in relief when his father nodded, relenting.

"I believe there is little to discuss," disclosed Lyla. "Jaime and I will leave for Casterly Rock at our leisure, but no later than three moons from now. The wedding is set for the day after tomorrow, and we all need rest, I think."

Cersei nodded in absent minded agreement, already rising, Tywin and Jaime following. "I must see to the children before they're sent to bed," Cersei said before bowing to her father and leaving in a swirl of Baratheon black skirts, hair flowing just as any cape would.

Lyla nodded. "Sansa is staying in my room still and she'll begin to wonder about where I've been kidnapped to." She moved to Jaime and kissed his cheek, then embrace Tywin. "I should hope to see you soon, my lord. Goodnight," she called over her shoulder as she left, a maid scurrying to escort her to her chambers safely.

Jaime smiled, watching her as she went. She was fire, his northern bride, and he could have sworn he saw a glint of approval in his father's eyes. A political marriage and a happy one, he mused, I could have done a deal worse.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

The fresh air was alarmingly cool, for being so far south. The sunrise had taken place only an hour ago, though nobody could tell through the thick clouds that had gathered in the otherwise lovely lavender morning sky. It was still early, yet that didn't stop nearly all the young ladies of court from barging into Lyla's room and waking her before she'd even had a chance to dream.

"Seven devils," Lyla muttered under her breath as she was slowly shaken awake. As her eyes adjusted to the women surrounding her, she raised a brow and pulled her furs closer to her. They were familiar of face, their names tickling at her memory.

Lady Alys Frey, wife of her cousin Jared Frey, was standing furthest to her left; her pale flaxen waves covering part of her round face, dark coal eyes sincere as she smiled. Beside her was Lady Karyn Mallister, with her fathers brown curls and bubbly bright eyes, chiseled face grinning. Then was the golden Princess Myrcella herself, and beside her were Sansa and Lady Jesenna Cressey, a girl of fourteen with a pretty heart shaped face and lovely rich yellow locks that fell past her elbows. To her side was the Lady Jillian Peasebury, a pale, thin girl with dark hair and eyes as grey-green as her namesake. Nearing the end of the row of ladies was Lady Berissa Estren; tall with a thick body and short pale blonde hair, light blue eyes twinkling in the candlelight that still flickered in Lyla's chambers. Last of all was Lady Evelyn Ambrose, at an age with Lyla being fifteen nearly sixteen, a girl that the eldest Stark daughter had played with during her stay at Highgarden with Margaery Tyrell. Evelyn was a lovely girl; her hair was long and thick, falling into soft black curls. Her eyes were chestnut, she had an upturned nose, and her shell-pink lips were cast in a delicious smirk.

The immediate thought that came to Lyla's mind was if she'd done wrong in any way; and then she remembered that her wedding was tomorrow. It was a southern tradition- or so Septa had told her the previous day as they broke their fasts with the girls and, to everyone's delightful surprise, Lord Eddard- that the ladies in court closest to the bride were to give her a 'shower' of sorts; parade her around and give her presents and spend the day with her as though it were her last day alive. An interesting tradition, thought Lyla, for mother always told me that life began the day one was wed. Then again, not all were so lucky as Lyla, marrying a man they could stand at the least, let alone find themselves fond of.

Yes, it was growing more and more apparent to Lyla that her feelings for Jaime were beyond just a simple fondness. She recalled the previous day; how he'd gotten on one knee and asked her, truly asked her, for her hand. And the kiss- it was the most carefree she'd ever been.

"Lyla, come, get up. We haven't all day." It was Evelyn who spoke, chestnut eyes direct. On the opposite side of her, Lady Alys Frey nodded.

"We have to get going, dear."

"We planned everything. There's going to be lemoncakes and tea," said Sansa, who looked radiant with her brushed ruby curls and silver-grey gown. Myrcella, dressed in velvets of gold and emerald, grinned happily. "We've haven't any time to lose, Aunt Lyla."

"Haven't we?" Lyla raised a brow and grinned slightly, sitting up and rubbing her eyes with her fists, stretching her arms out and rolling her neck. "And where is it that we're going, Cella?"

The princess looked to Sansa, and then around at all the ladies, pursing her lips as if to keep herself quiet. Rather than forcing the princess to suffer from the desire to speak, Jillian Peasebury's voice came though. It was quiet, near a whisper; poor thing sounded as weak as she looked, though her beauty prevailed indefinitely. "It would be terrible luck to tell you, my lady. Secrets must stay secrets."

"Indeed," came the voice of Berissa Estren; light and wispy in contrast to her tall, thick, short haired demeanor. She gave a small nod towards the wardrobe and Jesenna swung the doors open. A plethora of crimson and gold silks dripped from the open doors, swaying in the gentle breeze that swept through the open windows and into the room.

The order Cersei had placed for Lyla arrived the day before, and per the Stark daughter's thoughts, they were near all Lannister of color-such as the one she'd worn the previous day-, with a generous three of Stark white and grey. Refreshingly, though, there were at least ten of lavender, soft pink, yellow, green, and many more- even that of Tully red and blue.

Sansa and Alys flocked to the wardrobe, debating over the velvet gown of cream with the ruby trim or the one of maroon with the gold-dyed myrish lace embroidery and bodice. Myrcella skipped to it not long after with the lovely Karyn Mallister as Evelyn and Berissa searched her vanity for matching hair ribbons for the long silken gown of deep violet that the princess had pulled. Lyla was only glad she did not have to wear Lannister colors the last day before she would be chained to them for life.

"Can you at least give me any hints?" she asked them, still watching as they fluttered about her room like butterflies. Karyn Mallister turned her head and grinned wickedly, stating that there were no pleasures in spoiling one's own surprises.

Muttering all things unintelligible, Lyla rolled from her four-post feather bed- which was far too comfortable for her tastes otherwise she might have slept in it for months at a time- stretching her legs and curling her toes over the fur rugs that surrounded her bed. Alys and Sansa helped her dress into the violet gown, and Berissa helped Evelyn brush and braid silver and black ribbons into her hair, wrapping a black velvet ribbon around her mid-section.

After ridiculous amounts of their pampering and primping, the court ladies gave Lyla a moment to herself as they rushed from the room, giving no word, though she could only assume they were leaving to ready her first gift. No sooner had they gone, a quiet knock sounded at her door.

"Seven hells," she groaned, dearly wishing that they'd not all flocked back so soon. She'd enjoyed their company, but she simply wished to be alone for a moment. Still yet, she found herself calling, "come in," from where she stood on her balcony, facing the city.

The sky was still dark, darker than earlier, and the cool breeze might have been the only thing to keep her from ripping the silks from her bare skin, the heat still terribly unbearable. The feeling of calloused fingers tasting at her shoulders made Lyla jump, but she had no time to turn before arms were wrapped around her and gentle lips were pressed to the back of her neck.

"Do I scare you so?" came Jaime's rasping voice, and Lyla rolled her eyes, leaning into his embrace.

"Is it not bad luck to see a bride before the wedding, Jaime?" she mused, turning in his arms to face him. He looked tired, as though he had a nightmare and couldn't sleep- for the second time in a row that week. "Are you well?" she asked, raising a brow.

He simply sighed and leaned down, burying his face into the crook of her neck. "Mayhaps I simply don't sleep well without you," he tried, kissing her just below her ear, then lower and lower and lower. She only stopped him when he reached just above her chest, whispering a "no,"

"And why not? We're to be married on the morrow," he moaned into her skin, inhaling the scent of her, kissing back up her neck until he reached her lips. When he claimed them, Lyla did nothing but kiss him back, letting him hold her and mold her to his body. He seemed to crave the comfort of her, even stopped kissing her just to keep her there, which was when she took his hands in hers and pulled them from her.

"Jaime, you're not well. Come," she said, tone of voice quiet and calm. She led him inside and sat him on the bed, running her fingers through his golden sunshine hair. "What troubles you?" she asked him, worried.

He looked up, into her eyes, and then back down at his twiddling thumbs- until she covered them with her hand, that is. It was a long pause again until he spoke. "I had a dream. I've had it twice now," he whispered, intertwining his fingers with hers. "It's the morning and it's so bright- summer still, surely. And I'm in bed... Oh this is silly, can't we just forget about this?"

"No," Lyla said adamantly, shaking her head. It was clear that the dream, no matter how silly he thought it, was affecting him. "Jaime, if we're to be married on the morrow as you said, I want to make sure you're happy with it. Is this about second thoughts?" She would understand the hesitation- they were so opposite. She was of the north, he the south. She was short and pale and winterborn, whereas he was tall and sunkissed and a summer child. All besides the fact that they were still fresh to each other; unknown.

However, Jaime seemed shocked and slightly hurt at her assumption, "Of course not," he said. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"Jaime, no," she murmured, giving him a small smile, "Of course not." In fact, now more than ever she felt the want to be his wife. He seemed a better match for her than even the gentle, calm Willas would ever be, and he understood her like her father did. "Please, I fear we've limited time before the ladies of court come back to steal me away- tell me about the dream."

Jaime studied her face for a moment and gave her a tight smile, resting his hand on the nape of her neck. "Every morning I wake up to this incredible beauty beside me, sleeping away like a babe. I try and wake her; I seem to know who she is in my dream, but it frightens me every time..."

"What frightens you, Jaime?" Lyla was resting her head on his shoulder then, having wrapped her arms around him and cuddling close. His left arm was slung over her shoulders and the right across her lap.

"The blood," He said slowly. "When I roll her over- when I roll you over, you're covered with blood. Down below... It's like you've given birth, but there is no babe. You call me over but when I touch you, you melt like I'm made of acid..."

To quell his fears, Lyla lifted one of his hands and pressed it to her cheek, glad that he truly wasn't made of acid. "I'm here," She whispered to him, flashing a smile. "Don't worry, I won't leave. I certainly won't die in childbed- can't very well let you raise a babe on your own, can I?"

That earned her a halfhearted chuckle and she kissed his cheek, "Once I make a commitment, Lyla, I mean it," he murmured into her hair, "And I firmly intend on committing to you."

He wrapped his hands around the back of her head and made to pull her in for a kiss, but she was already on him, knocking them both onto the bed. They laughed into each other's mouths and Jaime moaned as she straddled him, Lyla fisting into his sapphire cloak and leaning closer into his lips.

He tasted so sweet; that familiar sugary flavor still lingering. Lyla's mind raced as he bunched up her dress from the skirt, rubbing his hands up and down her cloth-covered legs- he was so comforting and so true, so much of what she would have wanted in a man she would have chosen herself. Jaime was what she wanted- her throat rippled a moan as his fingers touched the bare skin on her calves- and he was exactly what she needed. Her emotions were on haywire, torturing her. She felt what she was scared to feel, and the voice in her head whispered it to her. You love him.

No! She wanted to shout back. She didn't love him; liking Jaime was far from loving him, wasn't it? Jaime moved his hands to her bodice and cupped where her breasts were, making him groan again as she moved her hips in response. She didn't know what to think anymore, so she simply stopped thinking, letting her body overrun her mind.

The door burst open and Lyla instinctively rolled off of him. Jaime shot up, running his hands through his hair and smoothing down his doublet, sliding from the bed and turning to look back out the balcony. "Jaime Lannister!" Came a mixture of feminine voices, all shocked and a few quizzical.

"It's bad luck to see a bride before the wedding!" Jesenna and Jillian gasped in tandem, just as Evelyn and Karyn exchanged scandalous grins.

Jaime turned and gave the girls all a sympathetic smile, "Apologies, ladies. I just thought I'd bring my bride a gift." He fished in the pocket of his doublet and Lyla raised a brow, pulling her knees to her chin and tilting her head.

"What gift?" she asked, wrapping her arms around her legs. She'd have felt any "present" when she was atop of him, wouldn't she? Jaime only smiled as his clenched fist left his pocket, a silver chain dangling from it and catching the light.

Lyla's eyes went wide as his palm bloomed open. In the center of his hand lay an oval locket slung on a thin silver chain. She lifted her legs and slid from the bed, fingering the dainty chain. "Jaime, it's beautiful," she breathed. As she lifted the locket, could see that there was a rose imprinted on the back of it and the hinges were designed to look like vines.

"Open it," he murmured to her, and she didn't have to look up to tell he was pleased with her reaction. She could hear it in his voice.

When she opened it, she felt her eyes prickle with tears. Inside the locket were two small portraits of her father and mother, Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark. They were brand new, clearly, and so beautifully done- they must have cost a fortune. Nothing is expensive for a Lannister, she reminded herself. Still, she wasn't raised with as much gold as Jaime was, and the extravagance of the gift was too much. "Jaime, I can't accept this," she said, looking up into his big green eyes.

He shook his head softly, "Nonsense. Aren't you familiar with your own customs, little wolf of mine? In the North-"

"In the North, it is custom for a man give his betrothed a piece of silver jewelry," she finished, watching as Jaime lifted the chain and unclasped it. She turned, already knowing what he was going to ask of her, and relished in the feel of the cool metal on her bare flesh, admiring it from where it fell right above her breasts as he clasped it once more around her neck. It was truly beautiful. "That's an ancient tradition though Jaime. It hasn't been practiced in the North for a long time. Where did you even get these?" she asked, opening the locket and admiring the portraits again.

"I commissioned them after we left Winterfell," he said, the back of his hand caressing the bare skin of her neck.

On the other side of the room one of the ladies coughed and Lyla felt her cheeks grow hot. As she toyed with the locket she caught eyes with Sansa and grinned, beckoning her over. Her younger sister hurried across the room and smiled brightly, expression astonished as she looked at the portraits, finger tracing over their mother's face. "I miss her," Sansa whispered.

Lyla pursed her lips. Sansa had been closer to Catelyn than either she or Arya, who was at her dancing lesson, and the move away from their mother was hardest on her. "I know," she whispered back, kissing the top of Sansa's head. "I do too." And she did; Lady Catelyn was her mother despite it all.

"Well," came Evelyn's bright, clear voice, "I think that's enough of the bridegroom for one day, don't you girls?" The other ladies all nodded and Jaime laughed, intertwining his fingers through hers and lifting her hand to kiss the back of it.

"I agree; you'll have her the rest of your life, Jaime, it's no fair you take her today as well." Karyn Mallister grinned, and winked to Lyla, who was still blushing. "Come on, Lyla, your first surprise is ready."

The streets of King's Landing were crowded and it smelled of filth, and as Lyla followed the ladies of court on horseback through the cobble-paved roads she couldn't help but miss Winterfell. She toyed with her locket in one hand, remembering the times when her family was together, running through the clean streets that always smelled of the cook's fresh baking.

"Where are we headed to?" she asked them, but none spoke, not even Myrcella- though she looked about ready to burst with excitement. "We've been riding for half an hour," she moaned, rubbing her stallion's neck softly, "Morrow's too fat for this. I haven't been conditioning him like I should."

Alys Frey slowed her buttercream mare, whose flaxen mane matched the Frey's own soft waves. "Don't worry about him getting a sprain or something getting pulled, the stable boys work the horses at least once a week. I'm sure Morrow is well taken care of."

As if he understood her, Morrow whinnied and Lyla laughed. "He's beautiful," Alys admired. "Where ever did you find him?"

Lyla ran her hand through Morrow's thick black mane and smiled thoughtfully, remembering. "Lord Willas Tyrell gave Morrow to me as a nameday gift when I turned six. I was to marry him when I was younger, before his accident anyways."

It was like any other tourney Willas had ridden in; he was riding well and had unhorsed every competitor he'd come across. But then the Red Viper had come along and unseated him, causing his horse to fall on his leg and crush it, rendering it useless.

She could still remember how grief stricken she was upon hearing about Willas' accident; crying with Lady Alerie, holding onto Margaery and Loras and begging to see him as soon as he returned, but he would see nobody for weeks. Back then, Willas was more than just a possible betrothal, he was one of her closest and dearest friends. She could still smell the blood in the air after Maester Lomys bled Willas' leg. "It's nothing, sweet girl," Willas had tried to reassure her, "I'll be walking by morning."

But he hadn't been walking by morning- in fact, it took Willas nearly a year to get back on his feet, and even so he needed a leg brace and a walking stick, though he used his wheelchair most often. She could recall sitting on his lap and riding with him as he rolled around Highgarden, but having to sit on his good leg so not to pain him.

"It is a tragedy, isn't it... He was so talented, or so Jared tells me," Alys commented, reaching her hand over and holding Lyla's.

Lyla nodded softly, "How is it that you met your lord husband, Lady Alys?" she asked, curiosity getting the best of her.

Alys' gentle smile faded and she looked down, taking her hand back. "Jared and I met on our wedding day. I was so scared, you see, and Jared was so vain... We were so young... He isn't who I thought he would be." Her smile grew back when she looked over and saw the near frightened expression plastered on Lyla's face. "Oh don't worry dear, it's not like that. He's very good to me, it just took time. Patience. My mother told me love comes in time."

"My own mother said as much," Lyla agreed. The ladies all turned around the bend and Lyla could faintly see the sign for a seamstress's shop. "Are we here to look at my wedding gown?" She looked over to Alys suspiciously and ahead of them she could hear laughter.

"Took you long enough to figure that out!" Evelyn called from over her shoulder, and beside her Myrcella and Berissa Estren were giggling. "Only an hour," Karyn jested, winking.

The seamstress's shop was beautiful. There were Dornish velvets, Myrish laces, and even expensive sandsilks from across the Narrow Sea, where Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen were rumored to live. There were manikins dotting the shop and in the very center of it all stood a tiny old woman with long silver hair and interestingly bright eyes of copper. "You must be the bride," she said with a strong, entitled voice, copper eyes on Lyla.

"I am," she replied, smiling.

"Well, follow me my dear. Your dress is already behind the changing screen and waiting for you." Lyla nodded and followed alone, while the ladies all waited for her. Jillian Peasebury had to hold both Sansa and Myrcella's hands to calm them.

The changing screen was large and beautifully painted, with cherry blossoms and nightshade flowers tickling it; Lyla reached her hand out, fingertips gracing the delicate wood. As the old woman led her behind the screen, Lyla's initial reaction was a gasp.

The gown was ivory satin, lined with silver and freshwater pearls. The bodice was trimmed with delicate lace and the dagged sleeves touched the ground. Sunlight broke through the clouds and shined on it, the beautiful fabric of the skirt and sleeves glittering like a million diamonds. "Oh gods, it's beautiful," Lyla murmured.

The old woman smiled crookedly and nodded, "Most expensive gown I ever made; excluding the Queen Cersei's wedding gown anyways. Come on, let's get you dressed." She stepped onto a stool and pulled the gown from the hanger, waiting until Lyla had slipped from her silken violet dress to pull the bridal gown over her head.

When she was laced up, the woman grinned. "My best work yet," she said proudly before leading Lyla back out from behind the screen.

"Goodness!" Evelyn squealed just as Myrcella and Sansa giggled in excitement. "You look beautiful!"

Berissa and Jesenna gossiped about how lovely she looked in it and Jillian and Alys grinned with Karyn Mallister, staring in silent awe. Lyla was just about to turn to look into the looking glass that the old woman put behind her when she felt hands on her shoulders, clasping something there. "What in the... Loras!"

As soon as she caught sight of the lavish emerald and gold cloth she knew it had to be a Tyrell, and she was overjoyed to find Ser Loras standing behind her, smoothing down a cloak of silver with an ivory direwolf in the center and pearls embroidering it. "Every maiden needs a maiden's cloak," he said softly, grinning that charming Tyrell grin.

She threw her arms around him and he lifted her, twirling her around in circles. "I haven't seen you since I was a girl, Loras. Oh I've missed you!"

"Surprise number two," Karyn explained. "Evelyn sent him a raven and he came as soon as he could."

Evelyn was grinning, her chestnut eyes glinting in the light. "Brilliant, aren't I?"

"Wonderful," Lyla smirked and released Loras only long enough to give Evelyn a light hug before embracing him again. "Where is Margaery? You two are never apart."

Loras brushed hair from her face- the few pieces that fell from her plait- and smiled darkly. "She's with Willas while Garlan is away with Leonette. I'm to report back to her everything; down to the last decal on the dinner plates."

"You may want to take notes then, the queen has ordered forty courses," Jesenna Cressey said, who looked up at Loras with her lovely chocolate eyes. Loras's own honey eyes were on Lyla though.

"Look at you," he said more light heartedly. "You look like a bride if I've ever seen one. Lannister is a lucky, lucky man."

Lyla smiled. "Where ever did you get this cloak?"

"That's surprise number three," Alys said softly, "We've all pitched in and made it for you. It took us a week." Jillian nodded, "Sansa sewed the direwolf."

Sansa blushed when all eyes fell on her, twinkling eyes meeting Loras' honey gold through her lashes for a moment before switching to her sister's matching bright blue. "Myrcella added most of the pearls," she said modestly.

"It was nothing, really," Myrcella chirped, blushing prettily, golden curls tumbling past her shoulders as she bowed her head. "Miss Jennesen, may we see the veil on her?" she asked the old woman, who smiled and nodded.

The veil was a very delicate cloth of silver, see-through but just barely. There were silver chains that fell over it like rain with pearls attached to the bottoms of them like dewdrops. "You'll be the bride of the century," Berissa praised in tandem with Jesenna. Jillian and Sansa nodded and Karyn and Alys squealed excitedly. Myrcella commented about her looking like a snowflake, and Loras smirked. "Befitting for a northern bride to bring winter to the South," he said.

The door of the shop opened and Carinya strolled in. "Sorry I'm late," she said, grinning. "I had something to fetch." She tugged on a leash and Lyla yipped in excitement to see her direwolf freshly washed with a large bright white ribbon tied around her neck. She'd been kept with Lady and Nymeria as of late- Jory Cassel had been training them to obey certain commands such as Sit, Stay, Retrieve, Return, and Lyla had even heard him teaching them Home, at which they would run back to the Tower of the Hand.

Rose padded into the store and Lyla noticed the glint around the ribbon and knelt down to pull a roll of parchment from around her neck. "What's this?" She asked, looking up at Carinya, who only shrugged, smirking. She opened it.

Lyla,

We miss you in Winterfell. Your laughter, your songs, your jests. You are our sister forever more, a daughter of the North and a Stark forever. She prays for you, he cries for you, we all love you. All my best wishes for you on your wedding day and all of my affection,

Robb

Lyla felt her eyes prickle with tears for the second time that day as she read the letter over and over. Her mother prayed for her, Rickon cried for her, and life sounded so bland there without her, or at least that was how Robb worded it. She hadn't gotten word from Winterfell till then, though she'd written to both Robb and Theon. She was about to stand back up when she noticed another note.

Sweetest sister,

I miss you and the girls sorely. Father as well. I hope your wedding is full of joy and that you are as happy as I want you to be. You all have my greatest love.

Jon

The tears fell then, and Lyla thought that those letters were the greatest surprise and gift she could have ever received. She missed her family so much, and to hear from them made her swell with happiness. "Oh thank you," she sobbed, pulling Carinya in for a long, warm hug. "Thank you so much."

"It was no trouble, my lady," Carinya insisted, smiling as she was pulled from the hug. "Anything for you is a pleasure."

The rest of the day was spent with pampering and primping and eating every decedent treat that the kitchen cooks sent out; cherries, plum cookies, lemoncakes, and Lyla's favorite, apple tarts. It was her last day as a Stark and one of the most pleasant she'd experienced. Her father had even shown up to have lunch with her, Loras, and all the ladies, where Loras had been persuaded to enlist in the tourney that was to come after the wedding.

She lay in bed now, at midnight with the onyx sky and twinkling stars above her from where she and Sansa and Myrcella had the bed moved to the balcony so that the wedding dress could fit in her chamber. Myrcella had fallen asleep hours ago, but she and Sansa lay awake, talking.

"Do you think he'll learn to love me?" Lyla whispered to her sweet sister, who lay on the other side of the bed, Myrcella between them.

Sansa lifted her head slightly so Lyla could see it and smiled warmly, sleep drowning her blue irises. "Don't be silly, Lyla. Everyone loves you. He'd be a fool not to."

Lyla heard shuffling and sat up to peer into the room. Alys, Berissa, Jesenna, Jillian, Karyn, and Evelyn all slept on small cots in her room, for after their busy, bustling day everyone was far too tired to return to their own chambers, which were sporadically placed around the Red Keep. She lay back down though, when she realized it was only Rose nuzzling closer to the kindling fire.

"I'm nervous, Sansa," Lyla admitted.

"Don't be. You'll forever be my sister and father's daughter and Arya's sister too. You'll always be a Stark, you needn't worry," Sansa whispered back.

Myrcella stirred and her emerald eyes fluttered open for a moment as she looked for Lyla, snuggling closer to her. "Goodnight, Aunt Lyla," she hummed, wrapping her arms around the Stark girl's waist.

"Goodnight sweet princess," she murmured, kissing the girl's forehead. "Goodnight, Sansa," she said to her sister, who had begun to snore softly.

On the morrow she'd be a married woman, but for now, she could dream easy. Of Winterfell, of home with the boys, wrestling with Theon and shooting arrows with Robb. Soon, she thought groggily, we'll all be together soon. And then her mind slowed and sleep finally came.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Lyla woke up to the summer sunshine beating down on her face, warming her and making her skin boil. "Bloody hells," she hissed, rolling off of the bed in her haste to get into the shade and falling onto the marble floor of her balcony. "Ow..." she moaned.

"Finally you're awake!" came a bright, bubbly voice, and she scrambled to sit up, shoving hair from her face and looking into the a pair of bright sapphire eyes. "What are you doing on the floor, silly, get up!" Karyn Mallister pulled her from the ground with the help of Berissa Estren, who stood behind her. They were all freshly washed and dressed in clean gowns- how long had she been asleep?

"What time is it?" Lyla asked groggily, rubbing sleep from her eyes. In the South it was a marital tradition to hold a breakfast feast before one's wedding, and it would be a terrible imposition to miss it.

"Don't worry, dearest, you haven't missed the morning feast. It's still early, only seven," Alys Frey said from inside, where she had pulled a nice copper tub into the main room and was filling it with scents and soaps and Jesenna placing creams beside it.

Myrcella and Sansa were brushing their hair with brushes that Lyla didn't recognize as hers and Evelyn lounged on her cot, toying with some of the freshwater pearl tassels that hung from her silver veil. "Hurry up and undress, Lyla, we haven't time to lose," said Evelyn, who had an ultimately bored expression clouding her eyes as she looked up from the pearls.

Sensing that most of the girls had a headache from the amounts of wine they all drank last night, Lyla wasted no time dilly dallying, slipping from her undergarments and sliding into the tub with help from Berissa, who was the strongest and least hung-over- aside from Myrcella and Sansa, who only had fruit juice last night at Lyla's insistence.

The water smelled unfamiliar to Lyla and she frowned. "Where is my rosewater?" She asked, sinking further into the water. It was the scent of honey and almonds, and while not unpleasant, it was terribly different. "Jaime won't like this," she said quietly, more to herself than to the girls.

"Your rosewater was sent to Jaime's chamber about an hour ago. This is all we had down here, but isn't it just lovely? I might just prefer it," said Jillian, just as Karyn said, "bugger Jaime, he'll have his rosewater back by tomorrow morning."

Alys just sighed and continued scrubbing Lyla's skin until it blazed bright pink, Jesenna scraping her pores clean of all filth and splashing her face with cold water before her hair was lathered in heavily honey scented soap. She wrinkled her nose and begged them to rise it out.

"It smells sweet enough to put me in a coma," Jillian quietly agreed, and Lyla's spirits fell at the remembrance of Bran, unconscious in Winterfell with useless legs, pale and frail and sick. My poor, gentle brother, she thought solemnly.

"I'm sorry," Jillian said at once. "I did not realize-"

"Really, it's no troubles Jillian," Lyla said softly, smiling up at her friend. "Can't let myself be sad today anyways; it is my wedding day after all." The girls all hummed their agreement and Lyla felt thankful that Jesenna had begun rinsing the honey scent out of her hair.

Sansa strode across the room with Lady and Rose at her sides, Myrcella eagerly teetering after her. They both sat on plush chairs beside the fire, leaving one open between them for Lyla, who sat in it eagerly after she'd been towel dried, soaking up the heat. Though she was of the North and winterborn, the chills of stepping out of a piping hot bath were so much different than that of winter winds. She brushed her own hair as the girls twiddled about and pulled gowns from her wardrobe, all Lannister of course, as would only be befit.

As soon as her hair had dried fully, the girls slipped her into golden smallclothes and shimmied her into a velvet gown of crimson with a golden sash, her silver locket nestled between her breasts. They pinned her hair into a pile of tight braids and curls that looked remotely tame, and put a golden lion pin with rubies for eyes in the center of it all.

"I look like I have a cabbage on my head," Lyla muttered thoughtlessly, tugging at one of the ringlets.

Evelyn sat up fully and set the veil beside her, "Oh gods," she said. She tried desperately to stifle her laughter, but just couldn't stop. "You look awful!"

Alys began laughing too, and then Karyn and Berissa, leaving Jesenna and Jillian looking rather upset. "It's not too terrible, surely?" Jesenna questioned, pursing her lips, rich yellow curls framing her heart shaped face perfectly as she looked down.

Lyla so desperately wanted to be honest, tell the girls that she'd rather her hair be down, but Jillian's eyes fell downcast and instead, she sighed. "It looks lovely, girls. I adore cabbage," she lied.

The pretty, pale faced girl with grey-green eyes grinned toothily. "Oh I just knew you'd like it," she said in that wispy, gentle voice of hers.

Karyn leaned against a looking glass and shook her head, eyes glinting with humor. "You do look lovely with your hair down. Shame," she whispered in a sort of queer way, and Lyla froze in her plush velvet arm-chair. Shame; the same word that Petyr Baelish had uttered only days ago, after he'd caught she and Jaime saying their breathless goodbyes. She forced herself not to raise a brow, not to act suspicious. If Karyn Mallister was a spy for Lord Baelish, she'd go on leaving her be- Lyla Stark had nothing to hide.

"Are you troubled, dear?" Evelyn asked, ripping Lyla from her thoughts.

She looked to her friend, flashing a lazy smile. "I'm fine, you needn't worry."

"Well good," Evelyn said, bored as she stood and smoothed down her dress of buttercream. "We don't have time to delay any longer. Let's go, ladies, we haven't all day to pamper the bride; there is a feast to attend to."

The hall looked a mess of blood and sunshine.

Golden floors were polished until they shone bright, glittering like the stars. Cream lions adorned heavy, luxurious ruby velvets, which were hung carefully along each wall. Drapes of honey colored cloth swayed as the open windows allowed air to whisk into the hall, a pleasant change from the humidity that rose with having over two hundred men, women, and children in one room all at the same time.

The gilded, dark stained cherry oak furniture looked stunning against the ruby tapestries with golden filigree stitch work and tassels, refurbished with plush, soft, gorgeous velvets of crimson and buttercream with subtle lions sewn into each cushion, arm rest, and even the cloth napkins.

Crystal eyes scanned the crowd and fell upon the Stark family, or what was available of them in King's Landing, anyhow. Sansa sat beside Eddard, Arya at her other side with Jory, and Loras Tyrell across the table from them, for he was near family after so many years.

Desperately, Lyla Stark wanted to sit with her family at the table just below the dais, where she even noticed the King Robert Baratheon himself swaggering to, the little ones Myrcella and Tommen following him. Cersei wasn't far from him, though sat at the table across from the Starks, with Joffrey in tow. The table was full to the brim of golden haired beauties; Cersei, Joffrey, Tywin and his sister Gemma, Kevan their brother, his little wife, and even Lancel, who looked at Lyla with scorching Wildfire green eyes.

As if on cue, all eyes fell on Lyla then, and she wished that it weren't tradition to sit with ones betrothed alone together on the dais. She was comfortable with Jaime, yet she still wanted to run- she was a runner, always was and always would be. She ran from her worries, her frights, and now she wanted to run from her nerves. Slowly, she began to take steps back, fighting the urge to tug at one of the curls that Jillian and Jesenna had piled atop her head to quell her hurried breath.

The ladies of court were gone, dispersed by then to sit at their tables and chirp away like the charming birds they were, and there was nothing to stop Lyla from turning on her heel and sprinting into the Kingswood in search of a heart tree she knew she would never find so deep buried in the South. Just as she was about to turn, however, a voice whispered her name and she jumped, focusing her nerve-blurred vision onto the face of none other than he.

"Surely you're not going to run out on me? I've so been looking forward to today," Jaime murmured to her, reaching for her hand. She readily accepted, just as much as she accepted his soft lips on her forehead, warmed from all the thoughts swarming her mind.

He looked dazzling in his golden doublet and flowing crimson cape, nearly the opposite to Lyla's ruby gown with sash of cream around her thin waist. His sunshine hair was brushed through, clearly, and he was fresh bathed. He smells of my rosewater, she mused, taking comfort in that fact.

As if he read her mind, Jaime smiled into her hair, "The small vile of rosewater you sent... I decided today would be the day to use it... Oh gods." He wrinkled his nose as he cursed and sneezed. "Whatever those ladies of yours have been doing to your bathwater is awful!"

She frowned. She already knew it smelled terrible- she hated almonds. "It's honey almonds," She said softly as she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and he slowly coaxed her through the hall, staying close despite his clear disapproval of the soap she'd been scrubbed with and her hair had been lathered with.

"I hate it," Jaime groaned, leading her down the long stretch, giving polite, tight-lipped smiles to the strangers that surrounded them.

Lyla nodded. "As do I," she said, waving softly to the table where her family, Loras, Robert, and the young royals sat, the King surprisingly sober as he watched her intently, smiling somberly. She knew it wasn't because he was sad to see her married, as was the cause of Ned's sullen smile, but because he looked at her and saw her aunt; Lyanna.

When they reached the dais, Jaime pulled her chair out for her and then slid it back in with ease, taking a seat beside her. He smelled so familiar and sweet that she found herself leaning her head on his shoulder, burying her nose in his doublet to catch the scent. "I miss this smell. I've worn it my whole life," She murmured. To Lyla, it was simply a comfort to no end, but to the guests of the breakfast feast it would just look like affection between lovers.

"And will for the rest of it I hope. I can't stand almonds," Jaime muttered, and Lyla silently thanked him for allowing her to remain within a close proximity though the smell clearly tortured him. Mayhaps he truly hated almonds, like she, though Lyla thought perhaps he'd fallen for her scent of rosewater and would hate any other on her regardless. She hoped for the latter, turning so her head once again faced the crowd and the side of her face rested on him.

Servants poured glasses of three wines; Arbor white, Dornish red, and a honey crisp from beyond the Narrow sea. Sitting back upright, Lyla lifted the honey crisp first, sniffing it. The scent was of its namesake, smelling of diluted honey, with a lingering hint of crisp, ripe apples. Looking to Jaime, he winked and tipped a glass of Dornish red back before setting to stealing bites of the eggs placed before him; all cooked until it turned white with the yolk running as he broke it open with a slice of toasted wheat bread.

Lyla shrugged, enjoying the comfortable silence and feel of his hand wrapped protectively over hers, and tipped her own glass of honey crisp back. At first, the taste was too coy for her enjoyment, but the aftertaste was so delicious that she had to have more. Before she knew it, she'd drained the cup- feeling much more relaxed but still sober- and only touched a few pieces of fruit and gone through one egg whereas Jaime ate as though it were the first time he'd tasted food.

"You'll get a stomach ache if you keep eating like that," she said, grinning as he scarfed down a piece of honeyed duck.

Jaime laughed at that, though he'd desperately tried to conceal it. "You'll get drunk if you keep drinking like that," he fired back, nodding to her second glass of honey crisp.

Lyla rolled her eyes and sat the cup down, picking up her fork and spearing into a piece of duck from Jaime's plate, chewing deliberately. He laughed even harder at that and she caught Sansa sighing dreamily as she watched them, as if her young sister were thinking of happiness with her own betrothed- because what Lyla felt at that moment was happy, and if his eyes revealed any truth, Jaime was as well. I suppose it takes him to calm me now?

She thought back to how nervous she was of all the eyes that were glued to her before Jaime came, leading her away and allowing her worries to dissipate into the atmosphere. However she tried, Lyla couldn't feel uncomfortable with the thought that it was indeed Jaime who now comforted her- she could have blamed it on the length of time that she was apart from Robb or Jon or Theon or even her busy, busy father Lord Eddard, but in truth, it was because over the three, nearly four, months that she'd known Jaime Lannister, she had allowed herself to finally trust him fully.

"Are you troubled, darling?" came a light, gentle voice, and Lyla turned her head, smiling to Jaime. He looked slightly worried, having no idea what wonderful revelations she was concluding in her cluttered mind.

She sat up as high as she could and kissed his lips in front of everyone in court, unabashed. "Not in the slightest," she said with utter confidence.

The breakfast went on as she supposed any would; there was a plethora of food, music that was kept a constant, and dancing. Thankfully, Jaime pulled her from the dancing before anyone- aside from the girls, Lord Stark, Loras, Robert, and the young royals- could touch her. He'd seen Lancel and Joffrey begin to advance towards her, and saved her from the troubles of waltzing with either. For now.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" Jaime inquired, kissing her cheek and then the tip of her nose. He'd been so affectionate that day, always kissing her or holding her, keeping one hand intertwined with hers nearly the whole breakfast. It made her feel safe, rather suffocated, and she was thankful for that.

Lyla nodded and waved to those that were departing to prepare for wedding, which was to take place in only hours- though she no longer felt the clench of worry, seeing as Jaime went through great lengths to comfort her that morning. "Of course I am. Are you?" She smirked, waving to Alys as she skittered off with Evelyn and the others, most likely back to her chambers for something by the looks on their sly faces.

"I believe I'll be enjoying myself more later," he murmured quietly into her ear, and Lyla felt her cheeks grow hot.

"Jaime!" she reprimanded, swatting his arm and losing her control as she began to release stifled laughter. She was about to continue, but before she could say another word the Princess Myrcella, Sansa, and Arya had grabbed her hand and pulled her away, calling their apologies for stealing her over their shoulders. It was time to get ready for the wedding.

The chamber looked as empty as a crypt as the girls walked in- or at least Lyla thought. The cots were all gone, her four-post bed removed, all the furniture but a few chairs stripped from the room and only boxes of ribbons, the vanity, changing screen, and her wedding gown left.

"It looks naked in here," Arya whispered, and Sansa snapped a shut up at her.

"Sansa, not today," Lyla muttered, half jesting. Still mesmerized by the sight of her heavenly ivory satin gown, Lyla pursed her lips and went to it, running her fingertips along the beautiful fabric. It felt like a river's fresh water; cool and silky and smooth. "I'm getting married today," she whispered in disbelief.

Myrcella and Sansa giggled and Arya grinned, saying, "of course you are, stupid!"

"Oh good, you've finally shown up."

Lyla spun around and raised both brows. "Queen Cersei," she said, slightly surprised. The queen was donned in a long southern gown so deep blue that it was near black, with a chain of gold around her neck and rings of opal and sapphire strung along various fingers. She was a marvelous sight- if one were going to a funeral. "What brings you here, your grace?" she asked, suspicion clouding her voice.

Cersei smiled her tight-lipped smile and shook her head, "Come, little wolf, we needn't use titles anymore. Cersei is just fine, dear." Lyla could sense the falseness of the words.

It seemed Arya could too. "What does bring you here?" she questioned, folding her arms. Arya was fresh washed that day, with her shoulder length thin brown curls plaited and a light silver gown covering her slight frame, a gown that matched her sister Sansa's perfectly.

"Mother has come to help Lyla dress," Myrcella explained, smiling, bright gold hair cascading in curls far tighter than her mother's. The Princess had worn a gown of pale cream gold lined in onyx- for it was customary to wear ones House colors to a wedding. It was to show one's self proudly, or so Septa Mordane had told her, for weddings were the hub of all budding romances. It was where lords met their future ladies, were young girls like Sansa danced until dawn and all the men in the ballroom fell in love with them. Weddings were magical; yet Cersei Lannister managed to suck up every drop of excitement that Lyla had for hers.

Lyla faked a smile for the Lion Queen and nodded sharply. "So be it; we'll need all the hands we can get. Where are the others?" she asked Sansa, who shrugged, eyes on the view outside the balcony doors.

"Never mind the ladies, I've sent them to do a few tasks so that this may be a more intimate affair," said Cersei, the air in her voice crisp. She took a few small steps towards the wedding gown and her smile fell slightly, softening. "I remember my wedding day," she said, "like it was yesterday. I was in red and gold and Robert... He looked so fierce and beautiful." Her fingers traced along the rim of freshwater pearls and she looked away briskly, folding her arms, tugging her shawl closer. "So long ago now."

Lyla watched the queen with steady eyes and pursed her lips. She might have been a ruthless woman, Cersei, but she had her moments, moments where Lyla couldn't help but feel sorry for her. She was in love with him once, she thought. But she never got the chance to be loved back.

"Well, that's enough sad stories," Cersei said softly, looking back to Lyla. "Come, let's dress you."

Lyla sat in a chair that lay before her vanity as Myrcella and Sansa went to work on taking the pins from her hair and unbraiding the plaits, Cersei untying the ribbon that was around her waist. The girls ran a gentle silver-backed brush with platinum bristles through her thick curls of russet until they lay calmer than Lyla had ever seen them before. Another tradition that was celebrated through the whole of Westeros; wearing ones hair down during the ceremony. It was a sign of their purity.

"Your hair doesn't look like a mess," Arya said, voice dripping with surprise.

Lyla coughed out a laugh, "Thank you, Arya," she said, chuckling.

"You know she didn't mean it that way," Sansa responded. "It just looks beautiful this way is all."

Lyla stood so that the girls could undo the cream ribbons that constricted her in the Lannister dress of ruby and gold. After she was undressed, Cersei shimmied the Stark colored wedding gown from the manikin and slipped it over Lyla's head, pulling the dagged sleeves over her arms and lacing the back with a satin ribbon lined in freshwater pearls.

Next came the maiden cloak, the beautiful fabric of silver and ivory that made her burning hot yet cool at the same time; she'd not worn a cloak since she left Winterfell and the southern heat, in a dress as heavy and thick as her wedding dress, made her burn like wildfire, though cool because it reminded her of the northern chills, the wisping wind and snow.

Finally, Sansa and Arya pinned the veil of silver silk with the matching chains of platinum and pristine pearls hanging to them like dew to her head, pulling the silk over her face. "Oh, Lyla, you look like a dream," Sansa breathed, lifting the fabric only to kiss her cheek before she let it fall back down her face, like water.

"Gorgeous, so gorgeous," Myrcella agreed, grinning that brilliant little grin of hers. "You look like the north."

"I should hope so," Lyla said softly, touching the fabric. I'll probably never see it again, she thought sullenly to herself, frowning, though they couldn't see it through the silk of her veil.

Arya smiled softer that Lyla had seen in a long time. "You look pretty," she said.

Cersei held a small smile. "Girls, why don't you run along and tell Lord Stark that the bride is ready for her wedding." The girls nodded, excited, and skipped away into the hall while Arya walked slowly to it, leaving Lyla and Cersei alone in her bedchamber. Old chamber, she reminded herself. All her things were moved into the chamber conjoined to Jaime's.

"But you are a beauty, little wolf," said the queen, who folded her arms. "So thin and young and so, so smart." Cersei circled her, evergreen eyes almost accusing. "Tonight you bed my brother," she said matter-of-factually. "And I'll have ears and eyes surrounding you. My father says I'm too cautious, but I only want to make sure Jaime is fully satisfied. You will satisfy him, won't you, little wolf?" She had grabbed Lyla's wrist by then, curling her nails into the beautiful fabric of her wedding gown.

Lyla ripped her hand away and narrowed her eyes. "I won't be belittled, by a queen or no. I will me your sister in the eyes of the gods in just a moment's time, so you ought to treat me as such."

Her skirts swept like a whirlwind around her, and she felt her cheeks burning. It was not in good nature to talk as such to the queen, but nor was it in the queen's good nature to mock her, and not for the first time. Gods, see me through today, she prayed as she went.

"By the gods old and new, if I've ever seen a bride it's you," Robert Baratheon breathed lightly, grinning and staring at her. "You look just like how I imagined your Aunt Lyanna would look."

Lyla smiled and embraced the king. "Thank you," she whispered to him before she pulled away, pecking his cheek chastely. "She would have loved you," she said with a strong voice, nodding.

He smiled sadly then and nodded along with her. "I know," he said. "You're just like her. You act like her, look like her, sound like her... I would have loved her greatly, Lyla. Greatly. I don't know how you do it, Ned."

Lord Eddard Stark, who was standing with them in the hall outside the Sept, shrugged. "It's certainly not easy," he said, "but I enjoy every moment of it." He pulled Lyla in and kissed her cheek through the fabric of her silver veil. She was to be married the southern way, in a Sept, seeing as there were no heart trees so deep south to uphold her firm belief of the old gods, to her heavy disappointment.

Behind them, a throat cleared and they all turned to see Lord Tywin Lannister, clad in armor of ruby with a golden cape around his shoulders; his green eyes were unreadable. "I believe it's time our children wed, Lord Stark," he said with strength in his tone of voice.

"It seems so," replied Lord Eddard, who held his hand tight on his daughter's shoulder, as if he were scared of letting her go. Robert and Tywin exchanged nods and entered the Sept. Lord Eddard turned to Lyla and gave her a solemn smile. "Remember when you were a wee girl, and you told me you wanted to marry a wolf?" he asked, laughter in his voice.

Lyla grinned, chuckling. "Of course I do," she said. She remembered that day clearly; Robb and Theon had gone hunting for foxes and hawks and brought back a wolf with fur as silver as smoke and eyes like crystal clear waters. "Oh please father, please might I keep it?" she'd asked her father, with her large doe-eyes and brown curls askew around her, folding her hands under her chin pleadingly. He'd said yes then, not knowing of the creatures angry and aggressive nature until it tried to maul Robb. But the night after the wolf attacked Robb, Lady Catelyn found her daughter, only three at the time, curled up at the feet of the chained silver wolf, which snapped at all but her. "I wanted to marry the smoke colored wolf," she recalled.

Her father nodded softly, holding his arm out for her to take. "You may not be wedding a wolf, but Jaime is. He is still the Kingslayer, but he clearly cares for you and, though I'll never love him like I love Robb or Jon or Bran or Rickon, he has my respect."

Lyla felt her eyes watering. For Lord Eddard Stark, a man of unyielding and brutal honor, to accept a man he thought of only as the Kingslayer as his daughter's husband and to respect him as such or more, was beyond her expectations or hopes. "That means more to me than you know, father," she said as he slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before signaling for the large double doors to be opened for her and taking her first steps inside.

It was absolutely stunning in the Sept. The windows were all stained into beautiful arrays ranging from gold to violet and every color in between- light pouring through the shards of gorgeous glass in the colors of their block, the whole of the room displayed as though it were a crystal rainbow. Velvet drapes as ivory as her wedding gown were hung by the windows with care, detailed with a pale honey floral filigree design and chandeliers of crystal hung from the brilliantly tall ceiling, reflecting the rainbow colors that poured through the stained glass windows and making it even more intense.

The aisle was covered with a thin silk sheet of white with petals painted red and gold lining the walkway. Those who sat in the crowd turned as Lyla neared the first of the pews, eyes going wide and all gasping or whispering soft things and praises. But Lyla's eyes were on Jaime, not the Princess and Sansa who nearly jumped when they saw her, not the King who looked near in tears as he watched her, only Jaime.

He was dressed in cloth of gold that matched his hair immaculately, sunshine locks brushed back and emerald eyes glued to her. Suddenly everything became so real- a man she'd known for four moons turned was to be her husband. She was wedding, and soon bedding, a Lannister. They were still more or less new to each other and not once had they really opened up- but Lyla found that she cared about all that less and less as she stepped down the aisle.

Jaime was gentle, kind. He was patient and gave her time to develop her feelings before he forced anything on her, which was more than most men would be able to control themselves with. He'd never given her a reason not to trust him, so why not just trust him indeed? If there was a time where she needed to take it back, she'd take it back, but at that very moment, as she neared the end of her walk down the aisle of silk and rose petals, enraptured by his genuine and obscene smile, Lyla couldn't find any reason not to let him hold her trust.

The High Septon was dressed in thick, rich robes with a tall crystal crown. "Who gives this girl?" he asked, though Lyla's focus was on his round, robust stomach.

Her father smiled beside her, "I do," he said strongly.

"And who receives her?" asked the High Septon, in his wispy, high strung voice.

Jaime grinned, "I do," he said casually, holding his arm out, hand open for her to take.

Lyla gave her father a quick peck on the cheek before she reached out and took Jaime's hand in hers. Ned took a step aside and then it seemed like it was just Lyla and Jaime, standing to face each other though she knew he could hardly make out her face from behind the silver veil she wore.

The High Septon continued to recite the seven vows, Lyla and Jaime repeating them after him, and after that he gave them the seven blessings. "The bride's cloak, please," said the High Septon, looking over to where Lord Tywin held a rich, thick cloak of ruby lined in gold with a brilliant shining lion in the center of it.

Eddard stepped back towards her again and pulled her hair over her back so that he could see where the silver cloak-clips were sewn into her gown. "I love you, my darling girl," he whispered to her as he unclasped her cloak of silver with the white direwolf and freshwater pearls. "You will always be a Stark, Lyla. A northern wolf," he said. After the maiden cloak was off of her back, Tywin handed Jaime the bride's cloak, Jaime stepping to her.

"Welcome to the lion's den, dearest," he murmured affectionately to her as he clicked the clasps of the crimson and golden cloak onto her gown of ivory and silver. He took his place beside her once more and held both her hands in his.

"I now claim this woman Lady Lyla Lannister," The High Septon's echo inclined voice rang through the Sept, causing the chandeliers to jingle most beautifully.

Lyla took a deep breath and squeezed Jaime's hands for reassurance. With the next words, it would be done and she would be Jaime's wife. Sensing her unease, Jaime thankfully spoke first. "With this kiss, I proclaim my love," he said clearly, so the whole of the Sept could hear him.

Pulling her veil back, Jaime's smile grew even more. "With this kiss, I proclaim my love," she said, though not nearly as loud or as even-toned as Jaime. This is it, she thought as their faces neared and foreheads met, this is it.

Their lips met, chaste and sweet, a fresh take on their usually intense sessions, and Lyla couldn't feel anything but relief that it was finally over; all the planning and surprises and moving. She was to enter the stable life of being Jaime's lady wife. In that moment, as the crowd cheered excitedly and people hurried to congratulate them, Lyla only saw Jaime, his emerald eyes and charming smile. He was beautiful and kind and Lyla just grinned at him as she rested her palm on his cheek and pulled him in for another kiss.

She walked into the Sept a direwolf of House Stark and left it a lion of House Lannister.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

By the time they reached the main hall it was nightfall.

Moonlight twinkled through the open windows with ruby lions painted on the glass and poured into the room like a film of milky silver that balanced out the overwhelming amounts of gold and crimson. The tablecloths were of red and cream, swirled with ivory and tassels of onyx dripping from them like black dew. Goblets of silver and gold alike were placed beside dining sets of opal and shining silverware, full of Dornish reds and Arbor whites and even exotics from beyond the Narrow Sea.

The floor was polished over again once lions of brilliant crimson were painted on them, and the velvet wall coverings of gold with roaring ruby lions swayed gently in the rare southern breeze. Everything was absolutely beautiful, though nothing was as stunning as the bride.

When he'd first seen her walking into the Sept, he'd nearly choked on the air he was breathing. She looked a vision, truly. Her wild russet curls were brushed through until they fell in gentle ringlets, calmer than he'd ever seen them, though her face was covered with a sheet of flowing silver silk, a veil with silver chains that ran down the length of it like individual waterfalls, freshwater pearls clinging to them like raindrops. Her gown of myrish lace and ivory fit her perfectly, all rimmed in pale grey with her dagged sleeves skimming the ground, maiden cloak of silver with a white direwolf sewn into it swinging like northern wind behind her. She was the only thing on his mind, then and even now as they stood hand in hand at the entrance of the main hall.

He looked down at her as she looked up at him, a gleaming, toothy smile illuminating her face as she tugged on their intertwined hands and began leading him up the hall and to the dais. The cloak of ruby lined in gold with a roaring cream lion that clung to her shoulders swayed effortlessly as she walked slightly ahead of him and Jaime found himself smiling like an oaf. She was his bride- nay, she was hiswife, the only one he was like to have and probably the only one he would ever... Love? Was it love that he felt when it came to Lyla? Mayhaps it simply couldn't be, as he'd only ever loved one woman in his life.

Looking over his shoulder to see his golden sister clad in her gown of black and pale buttercream, he immediately snapped his head back to his wife. Cersei was sneering in a distasteful demeanor, green eyes cold as ice and lip curved in a most ugly fashion. No, he realized, he didn't love his sister anymore, at least not in that way. His heart had already begun flowing with affection for the little wolf of his, in fact it started to a while ago, though how long back Jaime could not say.

She turned her head and flashed him an easy smile, one that looked only joyous and not disdainful, as his sister's would have. It would be easy to love the pretty little woman with sapphires for eyes, Jaime concluded, for it was certainly easy enough to fall for her.

He caught up with her quickly as he began to move his feet more nimbly, one of his strides matching two of hers. Untangling their hands, he swung an arm around her shoulders and kissed her forehead, relishing in the sound of her bright laughter ringing through the air, mixing with that of the quiet chatter of the guests that began to find their seats for the first course.

Jaime pulled out his wife's seat and smirked when the feel of her soft lips warmed his own. "Feeling frisky, darling?" he questioned as she sat and scooted herself up to the table.

Rolling her glittering eyes, Lyla scoffed. "And here I thought husbands liked to be kissed by their wives," she said, pulling the veil of silver silk from her hair and placing it beside her plate on the table. A server made haste in getting to them at the dais, holding a long bottle of pale green that was narrow at the nozzle and fat towards the end, pouring a wine that was a mixture of cream and white into Lyla's golden goblet. "Mm," she moaned softly, lifting the cup and inhaling the scent.

"Oh I most certainly like being kissed by my wife," he insisted, leaning over and claiming her lips to make a point. "I just didn't know the wives liked it so much." Having the Mad King and his wife Rhaella be the first taste of marriage that he'd experienced, and after that Cersei and Robert, he'd not expected Lyla's reactions to his affection to be so accepting. The only happily married couple he'd seen in his life had been Eddard and Catelyn Stark, his own wife's parents. They seemed so happy, at least until... Jaime shook his head, gold waves swaying. Today was not the day to dwell on the past, only the future.

His wife shrugged, long brown curls tumbling from her shoulder to lay behind her as she turned her head to thank the waiter that placed the first course in front of her. While Lyla was most likely observing the dish, Jaime was observing her. When he'd first met her, she had hair that was near frizzy it curled so tight, skin so milky white that he'd never mistaken her for anything but northern.

Now her ringlets of russet fell to the lower-mid of her back, calmer and no longer frizzy, and she'd become more golden in the southern sun, though she was still as pale as a northerner dared to be. He watched as she picked a fork up and ran it through a piece of honeyed ham, raising it to her lips and accepting the bite with a subtle grace.

"I fear I like your kisses more than I dared hope," Lyla murmured in response to his previous statement, grinning wildly as she bit into another piece of the ham. Smirking right along with her, the Lion of Lannister allowed himself a few bites of the meat, though forced himself to stop after only five. It wasn't because the ham wasn't good, for it most certainly was, but Cersei had ordered the kitchens to make forty courses, and he intended on trying at least half of them. "Jaime?" came Lyla's voice, and he turned to look at her from over his goblet, which was full of a mulled Dornish red.

"Yes?" He raised a brow, setting the cup down so she could have his attention.

She looked towards the floor- barren of any life- for a fleeting moment before turning back to face him. "When will the dancing begin?" she asked, raising a brow of her own, curls swaying with every moment of her dainty head.

Jaime laughed, tossing his head back for a moment. She loved dancing, he knew, for he remembered her dancing with near every one of her brothers at the Winterfell feast, and the question was so innocent, so eager. "There are to be forty courses, Lyla, I don't think that anyone will get up to dance until after the twentieth at least." In Winterfell, people began dancing as soon as they entered the hall, eating at their leisure and doing as they pleased, but in King's Landing, or near all the South, such behavior was labeled as improper.

She looked down, biting her lip. "I'm growing tired of all these southern proprieties." She sighed as she lifted her cup but made no move to drink from it. Taking her hand, Jaime kissed each knuckle and nodded in agreement, keeping their hands locked together as the second course was placed before them.

After only fifteen dishes had been served, Lyla had stopped eating, excitement filling her as the guests began to chatter more, the wines of the evening loosening them to almost as calm as the northerners that his wife was so used to. After the twentieth course Jaime had become too full to go on, shoving his plate away and sipping on distilled water for only a moment before he felt warm fingers wrap around his arm and tug him out of his seat. Quickly he set the goblet on the table and laughed as Lyla dragged him to the dance floor, even harder as she squealed when he lifted her bridal style and swung her around the floor.

Music began playing, violins and harps and every other instrument, and Jaime felt at peace. He snaked an arm around her waist and the other cradled her hand, her other draping his shoulder. Hamish the Harper began singing My Lady Wife, a song of bliss and romance, and he lost all thoughts that might have begun to tinker in his mind as his wife began to hum along, pulling him closer and resting her head on his shoulder. Her voice was delicate, soothing as a mother's lullaby or the autumn rains, and Jaime could have stayed like that forever- her wrapped in his arms with a crowd of guests mooning over their obvious affection.

"You're beautiful," he whispered to her as they twirled, feeling as she smiled against his doublet of gold. "Today and every day."

When the song ended, Lyla looked up at him with her gleaming crystal blue eyes and he melted. She opened her mouth as if to speak but closed it, looking away as guests began to file onto the floor by the tens to twenties at a time, another singer beginning The Bear and the Maiden Fair. Selfishly, Jaime continued dancing with her rather allowing anyone else to step in, grinning as she looked at him with question, an amused smile tickling at her pretty lips.

They'd only been dancing through half of A Rose of Gold when Loras stepped in and asked for her hand in the dance, claiming it was only fitting the bride dance with a Tyrell through a song composed in the Reach. Reluctantly, he nodded consent and Lyla gave him a quick peck before swinging away with the gallant Knight of Flowers.

As he returned to the dais, sitting and watching his wife dance away happily, he saw why they mooned at he and Lyla- for they weren't eying them both, just the bride. Her cheeks were pink from the heat of dancing, eyes bright as the moon that pooled the room in an odd film of silver, skirts blossoming around her like a moon lily with each twirl. She was certainly the most beautiful woman on the dance floor, or at least to Jaime she was.

"Lovely night, wouldn't you agree?" came a sultry voice, and he turned to see none other than his golden twin sister taking Lyla's seat beside him. Her sunshine curls, so much like his own, were loose other than a few sections that were pulled back in easy braids and held together with black bands. Her gown, onyx with golden embroidery and stags sewn all around it, was of velvet and fine silks, green eyes glowing. She was a beauty, though with his wife clouding his mind, comparisons were being made effortlessly.

Cersei had lines stretching out from the corners of her eyes no matter how faintly, her skin beginning to dry and her hair wasn't as lusty or shiny as it used to be. She was clearly aged, and Jaime looked away, wondering what he must look like as her twin. "The evening is good," he agreed slowly, sipping on Lyla's honey crisp wine from across the Narrow Sea. He could taste why she devoured it like candy that morning; it was fresh and sweet and coy, the aftertaste even better than the actual drink.

Placing a sisterly hand over his, Cersei smiled and looked off into the crowd, where Lyla had begun dancing with her father, Ned Stark. "I've heard rumors of her and the Tyrell boy," she said softly, squeezing his hand.

Jaime retracted his hand and restrained a snort, rolling his evergreen eyes. "She's been with me nearly the whole time she's been in King's Landing. She was to be betrothed to his elder brother as a girl," he said, voice near sharp. Lyla swung from Eddard's arms into Tywin's and then Joffrey's, and Jaime stood abruptly at the sneering grin the boy held. As he was making to leave, Cersei gripped his wrist, nails digging into it roughly, keeping him seated.

"Leave the children to dance," she said in a threatening voice and Jaime glowered.

"My wife is no child," he reminded his twin, ripping his arm from her though her nails no doubt raked skin from him. "You're a queen, act like it, not like some moody girl who hasn't flowered yet." Standing, he noticed that Lyla's brilliant smile fell and she was thrust into the arms of Lancel Lannister, now her goodcousin. He was whispering words with dark tidings, it seemed, holding Lyla far too close for far too long, and by the time Jaime reached her it seemed too late.

A tear trickled from her eye and she seethed, shaking slightly. "Jaime, I want to go," she said indignantly, wrapping her thin arms around his neck and pulling herself close to him. In response, knowing he couldn't very well kill a man on his wedding day, he simply held her close and kissed the crown of her head. "Please, can't we just leave?" she asked just as The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown began to play.

Giving her a small smile, Jaime kissed each of her cheeks as he pulled away. "Fear not," was all he had time to say before the king shouted, "Let's get on with the bedding!" lightheartedly, drunk and holding the Princess Myrcella on his lap, covering her ears with his bear-paw hands.

Lyla looked petrified, shock and terror creeping into her eyes for a moment before a luxurious smile played out on her face and she looked straight into her husband's eyes. "It would be my pleasure," she goaded at the king brightly, who laughed hoarsely in return.

"I'm sure it would!" he called back, laughing even harder as Tommen hopped on his other knee. Robert was a good father to his children, Jaime thought with a smile on his face, not always, but when he chose to be he was a loving man.

The guests began cheering their agreements and soon Jaime was torn from Lyla, men crowding her and women him. They were giddy about undressing the Kingslayer, it seemed, and the men even more so about the Wildling of Winterfell, who laughed haughtily at their drunk remarks. Joffrey and Lancel were nowhere to be seen, and Jaime felt himself relax, chuckling along with the ladies that began to pull his doublet from his trousers.

Lyla's group of lady friends surrounded him; Alys Frey, Karyn Mallister, Jesenna Cressey, Jillian Peasebury, Berissa Estren, and Evelyn Ambrose, all pretty and bubbly and as drunk as the King. Alys grinned at him knowingly as she unlaced his doublet and tore it away from his body and Evelyn daringly attacked his boot, pulling them from his feet as Karyn tugged at and loosened his trouser laces. Jillian pulled off his vest with help from Jesenna Cressey and Berissa unclasped his cloak.

Cersei came through the crowd and tugged his trousers off, face flat and expression blank as he was left standing in only his breeches and a loose tunic, both as crimson and bold as blood. "Come brother, let us hurry you to your chamber," she said, staying behind as the ladies rushed him out the great hall and down the corridors, where Lyla had been spirited off to only moments before.

The men had left her outside of Jaime's chamber wearing only her golden silk smallclothes and the Lannister cloak she was donned in only hours before. Shivering and shaking from her nerves, she reached out and tentatively wrapped her fingers around the door handle, twisting it slowly as she pulled the door of solid cherry oak open.

The room was large, larger than her own had been surely, with the windows wide open that led to a small deck, and drapes of crimson flowing like waterfalls of blood. Rugs of black bear skins were placed around the four post bed of painted golden wood that had silks of ruby wrapped beautifully around them. The sheets were covered by furs of wolf and bear alike, pillows of silk fluffy and high at the head of the bed.

There was a table with cream tapestries and chairs that were padded and upholstered with velvets of onyx swirled in crimson. A desk of dark stained wood was across the room and there were stacks of papers neatly piled atop it, in fact, the whole room was neat, to the girl's surprise. She'd expected a slew of tunics and breeches and gloves and whatever else Jaime fancied to leave about the floor, but it was tidy and freshly cleaned.

She pulled the cloak closer to her form as she went to the windows and closed them, the breeze having lapped at the fire that blazed near his desk until it was nearly extinguished, then poured herself some wine from the pitcher of iron that sat at the table, sipping from it to quell her nerves.

Lyla had no idea about the marriage bed. All she knew was what Septa Mordane had told her, "It's painful and cold," said the crone, "And I wouldn't be surprised if your crying through the whole of it."

Would it truly hurt, she wondered, or would Jaime try and ease the pain? She hadn't a clue, even less of how it really happened. Turning and walking towards the windows that lead to a tiny balcony, one smaller than her own, she placed one hand on the ledge while the other held the goblet. She heard the door open behind her and clutched the balcony's fencing tighter, tensing.

Quiet footsteps followed the door being bolted and soon she felt as arms wrapped around her waist and a head rested on her shoulder, lips pressing to her cheek. "Come inside," said Jaime, whispering softly. "It's cold this night."

To Lyla, the cold was welcomed, as it reminded her of home, but she knew he must have been freezing in the icy breeze, so she nodded, setting her cup on the ledge and allowing him to lead her inside. He seemed taller, she realized as she watched him shut and lock the door that led to the balcony. He was wearing only a tunic and small breeches, both as blood red as the drapes he pulled over the windows and glass door.

She could make out faint scars on his arms and legs, and then his back as he pulled his tunic over his head, raking a hand through his golden hair as he sighed and turned to face her, fire illuminating his features. He wasn't smiling, green eyes aglow as he studied her small figure, watching intently as she unclasped her cloak of ruby and gold and laid it on a chair beside her, keeping eye contact with him the whole time.

He took a small step towards her, and she towards him, both of them biting their lips. This was the part that most wives dreaded from the pain, the part that most husbands desired from the pleasure, and the part that Lyla couldn't tell if she feared or was curious about.

Reaching her arm out, she clasped her husband's hand in her own and gave him a small smile, pulling him close to her. "Are you making a study of me?" she mused softly, placing a hand on his cheek and pulling him in for a kiss after she realized that he wasn't going to make the first move.

Jaime loosened up after that, smirking slightly. "Admiring, more like. Do you know how beautiful you are?" he asked lightheartedly, running one of his hands down the curve of her hip and back up it, sending delicious shivers to her spine.

"Do you?" she asked, allowing herself to laugh. He looked so handsome in the bare firelight, sunshine hair looking more gold than even the flames, green eyes like wildfire. He stood no more than a foot taller than her now that she'd grown some, though she was still demure against his frame as she held him close.

He grinned down at her, then all humor fell away and he just stared at her for a moment, taking in her face, every inch of her body as though his eyes saw through the silken smallclothes she wore. "I do," he said, leaning down and wrapping his hands under her bottom, pulling her up so that he didn't have to look down at her.

She wrapped her legs around his middle, her arms already at his neck, fingers toying with his gold waves. "Jaime," she began, but his lips had started to voraciously attack her neck, pulling the strap of her chemise down and running his fingers along her back.

He kissed down her shoulder and licked back up it, and Lyla was certain that her skin had never felt hotter. She put her palms on his cheeks and forced his face to meet hers again as her lips crashed down on his, warm and slow. A moan sounded, though she didn't know who it came from, and he laid them on the bed, hands roaming her body.

He was propped over her, kissing her long and slow, one hand resting at her breast, fingers rolling her nipple between them. "Oh," she gasped through their kiss, arching her back towards him. He moaned softly as one of her hands fisted into his hair and she opened her mouth for him.

He felt so good and every move they made felt right, and Lyla felt as her nerves melted away. She'd ultimately dreaded bedding her husband on her wedding day, but this was already so different than what she'd expected, not that she expected anything at all really so perhaps that was why she was surprised.

When Jaime pulled away, his eyes were hooded, lingering all over her body. He kissed her neck and then her shoulder and up her right arm until he reached the scar, long and jagged and ugly. He looked at it quizzically before the recognition set in and Lyla quickly pulled her arm back to herself, looking away.

"Why hide your scars from me?" Jaime questioned, raising a golden brow.

Lyla just sat up and folded her arms. "It's ugly," she said looking him square in his eyes of evergreen. And it was ugly. The scar was pink around the edges, thick with a strip of white down the middle, sticking out from the rest of her arm like a mountain. She unraveled her arms and inspected it, frowning. Jaime just sighed and grabbed her wrist softly, pulling her arm out so he could see it.

"This," he said with a strong voice, "is a mark of your skill. Not many women, highborn or lowborn, could boast of their talent with a sword, nor their battle scars to prove it. But you can." He pulled her arm even closer to him and laid the flat of her hand on the expanse of his exposed chest. It was covered in scars from tiny nicks to the largest, which curved from under his nipple to just above his bellybutton. "We all have scars," he told her, smiling however softly.

She felt her lips curve into a smile again and she, feeling bold, grabbed his hands and placed them on her hips. He wasn't what she was hoping for in a husband. He was more. Looking at her with curiosity, Jaime allowed his little wife to move his hands up her body, dragging her slip of golden silk with them. After he got the idea, Lyla simply held her arms up over her head as she let her husband run his hands, and her chemise, up and over her head, leaving her naked but for her undergarments.

For a moment neither moved, but drank in the sight of each other; Jaime his wife's near nude body, Lyla her husband's war scars and battle marks. They were beautiful to each other, that much was clear in their lusty eyes. Looking up from his chest, Lyla smiled, unabashed that her breasts were open for his view as she laid back down.

She thought Jaime would follow her lead and lay atop her again the way they were before, but he stayed behind, staring at her with the goofiest of grins on his shell-pink lips. "Jaime?" she questioned, but he didn't answer as he uncrossed his legs and slid down, parting her legs with his hands. "What are you...?"

"Trust me," he said before he tugged at her undergarments with his teeth, pulling them down and finishing the job with his fingers until she was stark naked before him. She'd made to at least attempt to hide herself, but she'd known from the start that she'd lose the fight- she had married the Kingslayer, after all. He pulled his breeches off before settling between her, smirking.

It began with simple kisses on the inner part of her thigh, leading a warmth to pool between her legs as he neared her most private part, holding her down with his left arm while his right began to explore. Skilful fingers began to whisper on her stomach, slowly but most certainly sliding down her body until they reached there, touching her in a painfully gentle way. When his lips finally found their way to her genitalia, Lyla gasped and bit her lip until she was sure it was washed of color.

His tongue glided over her folds so delicately, sweet and slightly timid. "Oh," she moaned, feeling her breath pick up. When his tongue entered the slit between her legs, she gasped again, more sharply. The feeling was intense- hot and fresh and nearly wild as he drank her up like the wine she caught him sipping on while his sweet sister spoke with him on the dais.

Tentative fingers pushed through the folds too and soon found their way to the base of Lyla's opening, one sliding in slowly as he sucked on something that was driving her crazy. "Please..." she groaned, though she had no idea what she was begging for.

Jaime moaned into her and began running his tongue up and down her once again, adding another finger to the one. It all felt so surreal and wonderful, something she could never have imagine nor would have wanted to. A pressure was building between her legs and Lyla was panting by then, gripping the sheets of cream at first and them her husband's golden curls.

"Jaime, Jaime, Jaime..." she whimpered, feeling a child from the way her voice sounded so needy, but gods the feeling that was coming from him working his magic down there overwhelmed her to the point where she didn't care. "Jaime, please," she whispered just as- Oh! All of a sudden, as he began suckling on the stem of all her pleasure again, something snapped and a flow of delicious shivers ran through her like the sparks from lightning. She closed her eyes and saw colors, breathless but crying out in pleasure at the same time, feeling as her body tried to buck against his arm and she arched her back, curling her toes.

Her body was in the perfect equilibrium of pleasure and serenity when she felt Jaime move and crawl atop her, propping himself on one elbow as he positioned himself at her entrance, kissing her neck softly then claiming her lips. He tasted sweet, or rather she tasted sweet, and she felt herself blush giddily as she remembered what he'd just done.

She was slightly drunk and overly loose whereas Jaime seemed back to his serious composure as he looked her in the eyes, green fading into sapphire blue, and suddenly she knew what he was doing. "Stay calm," he said as he slowly began to push himself into her. "This... will hurt a little," he told her in a voice heavy from pleasure.

She'd known he was aroused- she saw it when her eyes raked along his barren chest- but now that she felt it, an excitement grew in her. The further he pushed, the more that Jaime looked like he was losing a seeming built up control and Lyla ran her hands over his back to sooth him, kissing him gently as she felt the tension that had grown on him, working his shoulders with her fingers. "It's you who should relax, Jaime," she jested softly, her quiet laughter cut off when she felt a sharp and utter pain between her legs and she looked down between them; more intrigued than fearful.

The pain was in contrast to the high she was coming down from and it burned, causing her to bite her lip once again. "I'm sorry..." Jaime murmured to her, pursing his lips as he sank further into her, his eyes mixed between total pleasure and sincerity.

"Just don't make me regret agreeing to this," she said, and his lips twitched into a smile. It was the same thing she'd told him all those months ago, back in Winterfell when he first opened up to her and she first let him in. Holding his face between her palms, Lyla pulled him in for a long, slow kiss as he began to pull out.

The pain increased but only slightly as he began to slowly move in and out of her, and she even found a queer joy in hearing as he moaned haughtily in her mouth as he thrusted gently. "Don't be afraid," she whispered against his lips. "I'm not glass."

They both laughed at that and he nodded, head lowering from hers, his soft lips reaching her nipple as he began to tease it with his tongue, reaching a hand up to cup her breast. Lyla heard herself moan deliciously and grinned deviously at the wonton ways her body began to react to Jaime- for where it once wanted to reject him, she found her hips begin to move against him as the thrusts became quicker and harder even.

She ran her hands down his back, feeling his muscles as he worked over her, an idea blossoming in her mind as she made Jaime look at her once more. She knew he was holding back- painfully so, even- and decided to take matters in her own hands since he was so afraid of hurting her.

It was endearing, the amount he care for keeping her from harm's way, but Lyla wanted him to enjoy himself. It was his wedding night too, after all. Grinning, she pushed at his chest and slowly wrapped her legs around him, rolling them both over so that she straddled him like she had just the day before when the ladies had caught them in a battle of tongues on her old bed in her old chamber.

"Trust me," she repeated to him when he looked at her with curiosity, lifting up from his body and sliding back down. This sensation was so different, so sensual. She moaned along with Jaime as she set a pace that was quicker than she originally anticipated, and he leaned up, grabbing at her body as if he were trying to keep himself under control. The power that Lyla felt as she slid up and down Jaime's shaft, watching his face twist in curious pleasure, was like no other.

Jaime groaned deeply as she rolled her hips on him and he flipped them over again, as though that was the line of letting go, thrusting into her as his lips attacked hers, making Lyla whimper against his lips like a kitten as he pumped in and out of her.

"Oh gods, Jaime," Lyla moaned. She didn't know from the beginning that it could feel this way, so delightful and enticing and gratifying. She began chanting his name as his hand slid between them and toyed with the nub that her pressure flowed to until an undying pleasure coursed through her veins and she breathlessly cried out in climax for the second time that night, biting softly on his neck as he began thrusting even harder and quicker, both of them enthralled in the feel of it until Jaime groaned loudly as his hips bucked against hers wildly and suddenly a gush of warmth filled her and he slid beside her, pulling her dainty body onto his.

They lay there for what seemed like hours as they tried to catch their breath, hands running along each other's bodies and through each other's hair. Lyla placed lazy kisses on his chest and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck as Jaime pulled furs over them, holding her tight after they were covered.

They didn't need to share words on how beautiful it was or how they enjoyed it, because they just knew. It was sweet and gentle, like that of Sansa's songs, but wild and wonton at the same time; timid yet utterly careless. Lyla couldn't say what time it was when she felt sleep dragging on her lids and she was far too tired to fight it.

She looked up at her husband one last time before closing her eyes and pulling herself even closer to him, kissing his chilled, sweating skin again. "I think I might just love you, Jaime Lannister," she whispered, sleep finally taking her.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

He could feel gentle kisses being pressed against his chest as he woke, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Looking down he saw Lyla, still on his chest, tracing patterns on him with her fingertip and touching her lips to each scar on his torso. The feel of her naked form against his, moving up and down as she reached each cicatrix, made him moan and she quickly glanced up at him.

"Don't get up," he murmured as she began to prop herself on her elbows, "I rather like this."

He'd meant the intimacy, the closeness of their proximity, but she smirked wildly. "Oh I know you like it," she said, snaking a hand under the furs and grasping him. "I've felt how much you like it all morning."

Groaning in pleasure at the feel of her soft, warm hand around him, Jaime wrapped his arms around her waist and rolled them over so he was atop her. "Maybe you wouldn't have if you weren't kissing me like that," he said, claiming her lips and sliding his hand up to her breast, cupping it.

She felt so good, so right, and he moaned into her lips as her hand began sliding up and down his shaft. Last night he had tried to be so careful, but she'd resented it and rode him like she would her stallion- so this morning he decided to make it up to her.

Lyla reached her free hand up and filled it with his curls, wrapping her legs around his hips as he lowered onto her even further, licking the part of her lips and nibbling on her plump bottom buss. "Oh," she moaned deeply as his hand slid between them and began playing with her most private part, rubbing and teasing her. "Oh, oh."

By then he was as hard as he'd ever been, growling as she bravely bit his bottom lip, her tongue toying with his. "It seems I've made a lion of you yet, sweetling," he murmured to her as he kissed down her neck, stopping when he reached her bosom.

"I'm not a lion," she breathed, gasping in pleasure as he took her nipple in his mouth. "I'm a wolf still. I'll always be a... a wolf." Lyla stuttered as he dipped his tongue into her bellybutton and ran it all the way down to her sex. Her hands gripped his hair tightly as he began licking up and down her private, over the slit at first to tease her and then into the depths as she whimpered for him.

He loved to hear her moan and feel as her legs desperately curled around him and her fingers tugged at his hair. "You're so sweet," he moaned into her as she rolled herself against his mouth. And she was sweet; sweeter than the coy wine she loved so much, sweeter than the lemoncakes her sister craved. "I could just eat you up," he murmured.

"Oh please," Lyla groaned, "please, please do." He grinned against her and reached his hand up, rubbing her opening softly. She must still be sore, he knew, but she didn't show it as she curled her fingers tighter into his hair. Slowly, he pushed his finger up to enter her, exploring her. "Yes," he heard her whisper under her breath as she moaned again and he huffed a slight chuckle as he slipped another finger into her, rotating them slowly.

She was soaked, and he could see where she was leaking slightly down her thighs as he pulled away for a moment to glance up at her face. Lyla looked gorgeous in the equipoise of the morning sunlight and complete and blissful pleasure she was undertaking; her russet curls were wild once more and her blue eyes were closed, brows knit together as though she were holding back.

"Just let go," he hummed to her, taking enjoyment in the fact that it was now he telling her to release herself to the pleasure- and just like that, she did as he bid her. Her cries of pure satisfaction were like music to his ears and Jaime grinned wickedly, letting her ride it out as he continued to kiss and lick her sex.

Before she'd all but caught her breath, Jaime crawled his way up her body, placing wet, open mouthed kisses on her as he did. "Good morning wife," he said sweetly to her, cradling her face with his clean hand.

She hummed lightly and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. "Good morning, husband," she whispered against his lips, gasping as he positioned himself in front of her entrance. Jaime expected her to shake her head or fain she was too sore and tired, but she just smiled and drew him closer with her legs, which were wrapped fully around him.

There was nothing better than being inside of a woman, Jaime thought as he began sliding inside of his little wife, who threw her head back and groaned deeply, moving her body against him in a way that drove him wild. She's perfect, he mused to himself, fucking perfect.

As her moans grew more frequent so did his, and he began pumping in and out of her at a pace quicker than the night before, much quicker. After trying so hard to be gentle with Lyla last night, he'd lost all patience with himself and desperately worked above her. She was warm, she was inviting, and most importantly she was all his; he didn't have to worry about sharing her with someone else or seeing her hold another's hand or kiss them. He was her first kiss, her first Lord's Kiss, her first partner. And hopefully her only, he thought, because I'd hate to share this delicious treat with anyone else.

Lyla clawed at his back and whimpered uncontrollably, biting her lip until it blazed white. He felt her begin to close around him and clenched his jaw, growling deviously as he quickened his pace, harder as well as faster, lowering his head and occupying his mouth by rolling his tongue over her nipple, biting it gently- which only made her cry out louder.

"Oh hells," Jaime breathed as her walls finally crashed down on him and he smacked into her, losing himself in the feel of her and the way she pushed herself against him, the room drowning in their moans and groans and cries. She reached over and claimed his lips just as they came together, sweating and dragging their hands up and down each other's bodies.

He immediately collapsed beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist and dragging her close to him. Her chest rose and fell slower and slower as time went on, as well as his, and it seemed like no time before they breathed regularly again. "Could I wake up to this every morning?" Jaime jested into her hair, and she rolled her eyes, propped up on her elbow and facing him.

"You might get bored of me too quickly if I indulge you every morning," she mused back, and Jaime laughed.

"I don't think I'll ever be bored of you, dearest girl," he said, kissing her softly before she sat up, taking one of the furs with her. "Oh don't get up yet," Jaime groaned as she rolled from the bed and stretched her arms up to the air, yawning.

Lyla just rolled her eyes again and threw the blanket at him, giggling when he scrambled to the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around her middle, dragging her back to him and plopping her on his lap. "Jaime!" She gasped as he nibbled on her shoulder, trailing his tongue on it. "I have to bathe!"

"Mmm, but you smell so sweet already," he murmured. The scent of honeyed almonds no longer clung to his wife, but that of sex and laughter and love.

Love- the word brought him back to the previous night, tangled with Lyla on the bed, holding her in his arms. "I think I might just love you, Jaime Lannister," she'd said just before she fell asleep, and he'd thought about it for what seemed hours before sleep claimed him as well.

He knew he felt strongly towards her, the pretty little wife of his, but was it love yet? He didn't know, and didn't dare say it before he knew exactly how he felt; Lyla deserved better than that.

"Jaime?" He looked to his wife and smiled, raising a brow to indicate for her to go on. "I really think we should bathe..." Lyla looked over to the bathroom and he sighed, nodding.

"Come on then," he said softly, lifting her up and carrying her over to the bathing chamber. It was freshly cleaned and stocked with fluffy towels and robes. Setting Lyla on the ground, he leaned on the wall and watched as she marveled at the giant copper tub and white tile floors.

She moved to the tub and graced her fingertips on the rim, then stepped up the three tiers that led to the mouth of it. He kissed her cheek and handed her a robe, pulling one on himself, and went back to the main room to call for a maid.

Carinya came through the door after he'd called three times carrying two buckets in each hand, full to the brim of hot water. "Don't get in a fuss, I'm here now," she said, pushing past him and making her way to the bathroom. "Don't you look happy, my lady," he heard the maid jest and he laughed.

"I should hope my wife is happy," Jaime said as he entered the room, where Carinya had already dumped the steaming water into the copper tub and scented it with Lyla's rosewater. "If you could have some food sent up, that would by wonderful, thank you."

"Of course, my lord, my lady." Carinya bowed and left the room, and Lyla looked up at him grinning.

"Come on, get in here," She said, tugging at the string that tied his robe to his body until it came undone. She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, sliding her robe off of her before diverging her body, head and all, into the water.

Jaime smirked. She was a card, this wife of his. "Alright," he said as he stepped up the tiers and slipped into the water, inhaling the scent of roses. He felt a hand grab his ankle and suddenly he was submerged in the tub, gasping.

He heard laughter above the water and pushed back up to the surface, wiping water from his eyes. "What was that?" he questioned, chuckling.

"Fun," she said simply, squealing when he wrapped his arms around her and swung her around in circles. She swatted his arm lightly and kissed him, once at first and then more and more. "Mm, this is fun too," she murmured against his lips, and he smirked.

"Yes, it is," he agreed, curling one of her soaked ringlets around his finger. She laughed lightly and pulled away, and he cupped her cheek with his palm. "Come, let's wash up."

The bath went by quickly and when they re-entered the main chamber the bedsheets had been changed, the bed made, and their clothes had been taken to be washed. There were two trays of food on the table by the balcony, the drapes pulled back and the sun shining through.

Lyla didn't even bother dressing as she went to the table and drank from one of the goblets with milk in it. Jaime went to the wardrobe and pulled out a simple blue doublet with cream breeches, pulling them on after he'd dressed himself in white smallclothes.

"No, no," Lyla called from across the room, where she sat at the table and ate strawberries. "The green one. It'll bring out your eyes." She stood and made her way to him, pulling out a doublet that was emerald silk with gold stitch work, holding it up to him and saying, "yes, wear this one."

He smiled and kissed her forehead, "I'm happy to indulge you." He pulled the blue tunic off and she slid the green one on, lacing the front and nodding.

"Better. Much better," she said before looking around the room. "Where are my gowns?" she asked raising a brow.

Jaime pointed to the bathroom, "Through there is a door. It's your bedroom, it'll have all your things; dresses, ribbons, stockings..." She stared at the bathing chamber for a while before she nodded, stepping towards the room.

He followed her, opening the door when she reached the conjoined chamber, watching her as she entered. There were banners with her House sigil on them, and everything was silver and white. It looked regal, like winter reborn. It was small, smaller than his own chambers by far, but lovely none the less.

She went to the wardrobe and opened it, gowns of all colors dripping out. There were silks and velvets and satins, all in an array of fashions. She touched the ones of grey and white, then those of violet and pink and yellow until she landed on one of river blue with whorls of ivory filigree and dagged sleeves lines in white.

"That one," Jaime said, leaning on the wall. "It'll bring out your eyes." She laughed slightly at his use of her own line on her, and pulled it from the cloakroom, along with fresh smallclothes. "Tell me, little wife, what's making you sad?"

Lyla sighed and looked around the room one last time before leaving it, Jaime in tow, closing the door. "It's so like home in there," she muttered, "and I'm not sure when I'll ever see Winterfell again."

"Oh, sweet girl." He held her in his arms and pressed his lips to her hair. "You will see your home again. I promise you. I'll take you there as soon as I can find reason," he assured her, rubbing her arms lightly. "I'll even take you to the Wall so you can see your bastard brother."

"Jon," she said softly, leaning into his embrace. "I'd like to see Jon again."

"And you will. In time. Come on, now, let's get you dressed." He took the dress from her and she slipped into her smallclothes, laughing when Jaime tickled her sides.

"Stop, stop please," she cried, squirming in his arms and pulling her gown from him, shimmying into it before he had time to tickle her again. "Can you fetch me a brush?" she asked, trying to lace the back of the gown.

He nodded and went to grab one. She's right, he thought as he opened the door to her chamber again, it does look like Winterfell. It was rustic and simple and hearty, with a rough cobble floor rather tiles or smooth stone. He looked around for a brush and saw the locket he gave her, placed carefully on the vanity, a silver plated brush beside it.

He remembered her reaction when he presented it to her; she was so happy she cried, even her younger sister with the bright red hair had shed tears as they looked at the portraits of their parents. He grabbed the necklace and the brush before heading back to Lyla.

"There you are; I was beginning to think you got lost in there," Lyla mused. She looked to have given up on lacing her dress and smiled brightly when he stepped into the room. "Would you mind...?" She held the ribbons of her gown up and he chuckled softly.

"Not one bit, dearest girl," he murmured as he set the brush down. Lacing the gown was easy- he'd done it for Cersei often enough, and when he was done he pulled her curls back and clasped the locket around her neck, kissing the crook of it before he went back for the brush.

He took her hand and led her to the bedroom again, sitting her in a chair by the fireplace before taking the brush to her hair. "I can brush my own hair," she said lightly, chuckling, but Jaime just shook his head and insisted he could do it.

Being Lyla's husband was probably the easiest thing in Jaime's life. He had been a knight- the greatest in the Realm even, he had been a member of the Kingsguard, he had been nearly everything but a father, and being a husband was certainly the least demanding; especially since he was married to Lyla.

She was so simple and good-natured, never a burden and always trying to help. She wasn't as her aunt Lysa was, needy and whimpering constantly, but rather he needed her in a way. It was a queer thought, the Kingslayer needing anyone at all, but her fire and compassion had been something as a spark for Jaime, bringing him out of his selfish ways and directing him towards a new path.

He looked down at her, her eyes closed and a smile on her lips, as he brushed her hair out. She was so beautiful and he knew he didn't deserve her or her love, but he had it and he would try and make the best of it. He would treat her the way he wished Robert would treat Cersei or the way he wished Aerys would have treated Rhaella.

"I think it's as brushed as it'll ever be," Lyla mused, bringing him out of his mind.

"Oh, yes, sorry." Jaime set the brush down on the mantle and Lyla ran her fingers through her hair, brushed dry and curling calmly rather wildly because he'd ran the bristles through it for so long. "You look beautiful," he said as she stood and pressed down her skirts.

She smiled. "You don't look so bad yourself." Wrapping her arms around his waist, Jaime's little wife rested her head on his chest and he held her close.

"You'll be a good mother," he told her out of the blue. "I remember you with your brother in Winterfell. Rickon. You were good with him."

Lyla laughed looked up at him. "I had to be good with him, he didn't have anybody else."

"He had his other sisters, his brothers, his father... He chose you because you were best with him, cared the most. Just like you will with our babes," Jaime said, brushing back a strand of hair from her face and tucking it behind her ear. "And they'll all be named Tywin."

She snorted, remembering their conversation the night that Tywin arrived in King's Landing. "Yes," she said as she kissed his lips and pulled him towards the bed. "They'll all be named Tywin."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Lyla and Jaime rode to the Hand's tourney on their coursers of blue roan and crystalline white.

Jaime was clad in shimmering ivory armor, a golden lion painted onto the breast plate, with a flowing cloak of crimson that colored the world behind him strapped to his shoulders; and Lyla was dressed to match. Her gown was of alabaster with shining gold lace and embroidery, ruby ribbons fastening her dress and corresponding red slippers on her feet. It was by chance, in fact, that they wore such complimentary clothing, but Lyla thought it was silly all the same.

There were pavilions being raised along the river in velvets and silks, ranging from the brightest of yellows such as they yellow that Sansa's litter was draped in, to the vivid violets were groups of squires were suiting up their lords.

Of the knights by the tent as green as her auburn haired sister's gown, Lyla recognized many. There was a Swann, a Caron, two Royce men, and six Freys; among them being Ser Jared of the Crossing, husband to the Lady Alys Frey, who Lyla discovered that morning was with child. Jared wasn't a homely man, he had thick dark hair and large brown eyes that looked a replica of Alys'. He seemed to love her well, too, for as they rode passed and Alys found her way to her husband, he lifted her and spun her, kissing her square on the mouth.

Lyla wondered if she and Jaime would ever be so in love. She wondered if he would ever want children with her as Jared did with Alys, or if he would be happy to learn if she was carrying or not. Maybe he wouldn't care, she thought, but shoved the idea away just as her husband reached a hand over and held hers.

"Do you see Lord Yohn Royce?" he asked, nodding to where the man stood, tall and brooding. "His armor is bronze, thousands and thousands of years old, engraved with magic runes that ward him against harm." The armor indeed looked bronze; the bright orange tinted metal glimmering in the sun of the rich midday light, with the carved runes catching shadows.

Lyla nodded. "I remember him well. He came to Winterfell two years before. He stayed quite a while, if I recall." Beside Lord Yohn was Jason Mallister, in indigo chased with silver, his helm adorned with the wings of an eagle; Karyn Mallister was with him, near his exact match with shiny brunette curls and sharp blue eyes, laughing with one of his guards and holding her father's hand with care.

Missing her own father, Lyla mentally damned the king. He'd been a vicious man about keeping her father with him, Robert, and even today, a day he should share with his girls, he had been given a seat not far from the king. In Winterfell he'd always stayed with his children, and now it seemed he would rarely see them- or rather half of them- for more than two nights out of seven.

Jaime said something and she was pulled from her thoughts. Looking up at him from her seat on Morrow, she raised a brow. "I'm sorry?"

"I have to go now if I'm to enlist," he said, rubbing his thumb in small circles on the back of her hand. "Will you be alright? I've had you seated in the front row with your sister, Sansa. Arya told me she's to stay in for a dancing lesson today."

"I'm sure I'll manage," she said with a light smile, leaning up as he bent down and their lips met sweetly. She was glad he was to ride in the tourney; mostly to get a good measure of his skills with a lance, but also because she was excited that he was going to be doing what he loved. He began to ride off, but she called him back. "For luck," she told him as she tugged a silver ribbon with crimson filigree from her wrist and tied it to his bicep, between two pieces if armor.

He smirked down at her and claimed her lips once more. "Thank you, sweet wife of mine, I shall wear it with honor," he murmured on her lips before caressing her cheek and kicking his heels into his snowy steed, riding off to enter the lists.

She watched him go for some time before she noticed Sansa's litter catch up to Morrow and she spurred her stallion once again, cantering to where a stable hand was eagerly waiting to accept Lady Lannister's lead.

It still felt strange to Lyla, being titled as Lady Lannister, rather Lady Stark. She'd been married to Jaime slightly over a week now, and they'd been in their bedchamber for most of it, but every time she was out it seemed that servants and maids were jumping left and right to be courteous to her. Mayhaps it had been Tywin's doing, or mayhaps Petyr Baelish's, but whoever it was that decided she should be waited on as thus, she thanked them; it was nice to, every once in a while, let somebody wait on her.

The stablehand led Morrow to where a slew of other horses were roped and Lyla made her way to the stands, sitting in a spot she was directed to by a young girl that couldn't have been over five years of age. Looking to the lists, Lyla observed all. An exiled prince from the Summer Isles wore a cloak of emerald with ruby feathers, his skin as dark as night. Young Lord Beric Dondarrion stood near the prince, his red gold hair glittering like glass in the sun's light, black shield with lightening painted on it intimidating, but not so much as the Hound, who was clad in his mail and dog helm.

The charming Renly Baratheon, in his coat of green metal, leaned against a post and jested with Loras, who was dressed in armor that was array of rainbow-colored flowers and green everywhere else, a cloak of deep evergreen around his shoulders and three golden roses sewn to it to indicate that he was the third rose of Highgarden. Jory, Alyn, and Harwin of Winterfell stood in their rather bland blue-silver plate and flat grey cloaks, but they looked as hard as steel with determinations creeping into the lines of their faces.

Sansa found her then, with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole trailing after her. "Jory looks a beggar among these others," Septa commented shrewdly as she and the girls sat around her.

"Perhaps, but he'll ride well," Lyla said, beaming when her husband came into view. Jaime was running his hands through his golden hair, smiling and laughing with Ser Addam, his longtime friend from Casterly Rock.

"But he does look handsome," Jeyne whispered in awe as Jaime's emerald eyes caught Lyla's and he winked. "And Lord Beric... Oh I could marry him right now."

Sansa and her friend began giggling and whispering then, and Lyla took to eying the grounds as they were being set up. The competition was well classed and she deemed that it would be an exciting round of jousts.

Jory began the tourney, riding against Horas Redwyne. He bested the oaf, as well as a Frey in his second round, though come his third, a free-rider named Lothor Brune won. Neither man lost his seat, but Brune's blows were better placed and his lance steadier, so Robert gave him the victory. Harwin and Alyn fared worse; Harwin was unseated his first tilt by Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard, and Alyn fell to Ser Balon Swann.

The jousting ran from morn to dusk, and Jeyne and Sansa had cried out for near each rider as they crashed together. She'd seen over a hundred lances shatter like glass and half as many men fall to the ground breathless; Jaime not among them. He'd been riding wonderfully, unhorsing Ser Andar Royce and the Marcher Lord Bryce Caron easily. His real challenge was Ser Berristan Selmy, though- white-haired and aged- who was as strong as the warhorse he rode, but her husband had won that battle as well.

Sandor Clegane and his horrifying brother Gregor were invincible, unseating each and every rider that they came across with vigor. Lyla's heart stopped for a moment when Gregor's lance pierced a knight from the Vale through the throat and killed him instantly. The blood flew everywhere and Lyla felt uneasy. She stood abruptly and made her way from the stands, heaving onto the grass. She normally wasn't so weak of stomach, and didn't know what came over her, but decided she was just hot- for the humidity of the South was still so foreign to her- and went back to her seat.

By the time she returned, the rounds had begun again and Jeyne Poole was being taken to her room by Septa Mordane. Ser Balon Swann fell to Gregor and Lord Renly to the Hound. A hedge knight in checkers disgraced himself by killing Lord Beric Dondarrion's horse and was declared forfeit. After Beric had switched his saddle to a new mount, a mare with long flowing waves of smoke grey and a body of onyx silk, he was unseated by Thoros of Myr, a red priest with flapping red robes and a close shaved head.

In the end it came down to four; Sandor Clegane, Gregor Clegane, Loras Tyrell, and Jaime.

Loras had been riding splendidly that day. His armor was beautiful and so was his horse; white as winter with a blanket of red and white roses delicately lain over its rump. After each victory, Loras would give a maiden a single white rose, until he unhorsed Ser Robar and trotted to the stands with a stunning crimson rose in his hand.

Beside her, Sansa was gripping the arms of her chair until her little knuckles turned white. "Sweet lady," Loras said in that wispy, gentle voice of his, "no victory is so half as beautiful as you." He held the rose out to Sansa, and she timidly accepted, inhaling the scent of it as she demurely tilted it up to her nose.

Lyla winked slyly to Loras, who tossed her three white roses and grinned at her. His hair was a mass of lazy chestnut curls and his eyes looked near as golden as Jaime's hair. When Lyla's eyes caught her husband, he was staring at she and Loras with raised brows and a grin of amusement tickling his lips. They both knew of Loras and Renly, but when she turned back to Sansa, it seemed her sister hadn't a clue.

A shadow cast down on them and Lyla knew it couldn't be from the sun- or rather lack thereof- and looked up. A man of short stature with grey-green eyes and a dark pointed beard stood before her and Sansa. "You must be one of her daughters," he said, eyes not lighting up like his mouth did. "You have the Tully look."

Lyla reached over and held her sister's hand in her own. "I'm Sansa Stark," said Sansa, who looked ill at ease. "I have not had the honor, my lord."

"No, but I have," Lyla said, eying Petyr Baelish warily. He wore a heavy cloak with a fur collar, fastened with a silver mockingbird pin. "Sweet sister, this is Lord Petyr Baelish, of the king's small council."

"Your mother was my queen of beauty once," Petyr said, and Lyla wrinkled her nose when she smelled the mint on his breath. "You have her hair, and both of you her eyes." Petyr fingered a lock of Sansa's auburn curls longingly before pursing his lips and abruptly turning away.

Turning to Sansa, she held a serious expression. "I don't want you to speak with him," she said just as the king called for the next three rounds to be held on the morrow. Lyla hadn't even realized how dark it had gotten; the stars were beginning to twinkle and the moon glowed above them, eerie and beautiful. Lords and Ladies fled from the stands, chirping of the day's events and the jousts. More than once someone would stop Lyla to praise her on her husband's good skill with a lance, and she would smile and try to be as polite as possible, all the while feeling sick of being so close to so many people at one time.

The court moved to the riverside for the feast, and Lady Alys had found her and joined her by then, Sansa steering away with Septa Mordane. "Jaime held his own well," Alys said as they neared the tables that had been set. Six giant aurochs had been roasting for half the day, slowly spinning on spits while maids basted them with butter and other herbs. Benches and chairs had been raised outside the pavilions with plates piled miles high with sweetgrass and fruits and fresh-baked bread.

Where Sansa had sat in a place of high honor to the left of the raised dais beside where Robert sat with a very bored Cersei, Lyla decided to take a seat among the lesser lord and ladies with Alys. Music began playing as soon as the four finalists rode to the riverside on their various steeds. Loras slid from the saddle and went to the same table that Renly sat at, Sandor sauntered off to find beer, Gregor galloped away as soon as he'd arrived, and Jaime made his way to Lyla.

"It seems your favor has given me luck unimaginable, dearest girl," Jaime murmured to her as her wrapped his armored arms around her lifted her from the ground slightly, swinging her like she was a leaf in the warm breeze of autumn. The expanse of his plate was cool and Lyla invited it wholly, kissing where her lips rested at his neck.

"You did well today, the honor is yours, not my ribbon's," she mused lightly as he set her down, smiling when his lips pressed to her cheek and he took a seat beside where she was sitting just seconds before.

As Jaime helped himself to a goblet of water, Lyla rested her head on his shoulder. She'd eaten only a morning meal that day, and heaved it onto the dried grasses by the stands, but the stench of the meat made her only want to vomit more, not eat. Her hand slipped into her husband's and she sighed, taking a cup of chilled water in her free hand and sipping from it to ease her stomach.

Across the table, Alys was eating enough for two, but she was glowing non the less. Her pale flaxen waves fell in clean, lovely curls that day, and her eyes were warm. Her hand lay on her stomach constantly, and when Jared came to her he placed his hand there too. "I'm so excited for you, Alys," Lyla said, smiling.

Her friend lit up and grinned. "Thank you. Jared and I are thrilled! We've been trying for so long, you see." She rubbed small circles on her tummy as if to prove her point, and Jared kissed her cheek repeatedly, lips curved to the night sky as he did so.

"Are you feeling well?" Jaime asked in a quiet whisper when Lyla shied away from the cutlery full of stew he held up for her to try.

"I'm fine," she said, giving him a smile as she kissed him and continued sipping her water. "I'm just not hungry is all."

He raised a brow, for he knew how much she could eat, but continued spooning stew into his mouth. Lyla laughed when some trickled down his chin and she wiped the dribble away with her thumb, leaning into him and smiling to herself when he pulled his cloak off and wrapped it over her shoulders to block out the gust of wind that tore through the small camp they'd set up.

Singers began settling in by the king's pavilion, singing requests and random sweet songs, filling the night with lively sound, and a juggler kept a cascade of burning clubs spinning through the air. Robert's personal fool, a simpleton named Moon Boy, danced about on stilts, all in motley, jesting and musing and making fun of everyone, leaving Lyla wondering if he truly was simple. He sang to Septa Mordane about the High Septon, and the woman laughed so hard that she'd spilled wine on herself.

The prince seemed to be treating Sansa with all the courtesy he could muster. He clearly had an interest in her still, and she soaked in the glory that he bathed her in. He showered her with affection, gossiped to her as young girls did, and Sansa had forgotten all about the drunk Septa Mordane, who sat at her left.

As she observed them, bowls of sweetgrass and salads and soups were placed in front of her, but she waved it all away. When the meats came, she had to clench her jaw and look away before she flicked her wrist at a maid to take it away. To spare her, Jaime thankfully reserved from the meat as well, rubbing her arm with his hand from where it was draped over her shoulders.

Later, sweetbreads and pigeon pies were being handed out. Apples fragrant with cinnamon and sugar dipped lemon cakes were placed at the table, as well as Lyla's favorite apple tarts, and she couldn't stop herself from nibbling at one of each; lemon cake and apple tart. Jaime helped himself to three little lemon cakes and two pigeon pies, and she laughed at him. "How do you eat so much?" she asked, giggling.

"You wound me my lady," he jested back, gasping theatrically. "I've quite the appetite after throwing half a hundred men from their horses."

"As I expect you would," she mused, kissing him slowly. He tasted of sweet spices and honey, and she savored it. "Come, dance with me," she murmured against his lips. Alys and Jared had already twirled away, and Lyla desired nothing more than to feel the grass between her toes and be in Jaime's arms.

He nodded and stood, her slippers sliding from her feet as he took her with him and they instantly began swirling around the riverside. The ground was moist and she grinned wildly as they swung around, careless and free. "Mm, I don't deserve a woman like you," he hummed into her hair just before he lifted her into the air by the waist and spun her in the air.

"I most certainly deserve a man like you," Lyla said smirking as he slowly let her down.

He looked like he was about to answer when a strong, slurred voice broke through the music.

"No," Robert boomed like thunder, all other chatter dying away. He was standing, red faced, reeling. Wine filled the goblet in his left hand he was drunker than Lyla had ever seen him before. "You do not tell me what to do, woman," he screamed to his queen, Cersei. "I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!"

Ser Barristan, Renly, and Petyr Baelish were all staring at him with unease, pursing their lips, but not one made to stop him. Cersei looked emotionless, paler than usual, and she stood with a vengeance, gathering her skirts of cream before storming off in silence, a slew of handmaids trailing her.

Jaime made to go to Robert, but Lyla grabbed his hand and shook her head at him, intertwining their fingers so he couldn't leave. The king was in no mood to deal with whatever Jaime would do.

Instead, Renly came to the rescue, smiling. "You've spilled your wine, Robert. Let me bring you a fresh goblet."

Lyla pursed her lips and looked to Sansa, who sat too close to the drunken king for her ease. "Come," she said to her husband as she went to Sansa. "It grows late. Come, Sansa, I will escort you back to the Keep."

Prince Joffrey nodded to her auburn haired sister and kissed her hand before standing and leaving, muttering farewells over his shoulder as he went. Septa Mordane snored soundly beside them, head down on the wood of the tabletop, and Lyla thanked Jaime when he insisted he would carry the old woman back with them.

The king had gone off somewhere and half the benches were empty; the feast was over and so was the magic of the night.

The Keep was warm and welcoming, but Lyla tugged the corners of Jaime's cloak tighter around her all the same. He had gone off in the direction that Septa Mordane's room was while she and Sansa trekked up the steps of the Tower of the Hand. "Thank you for taking me back," Sansa said when they reached the door and Lyla smiled at her younger sister.

"Always, Sansa. Goodnight," she said, turning to leave.

"Lyla, wait!" She turned again and suddenly her sister's arms were around her. "I never thanked you or Jaime for Lady... so, thank you."

Lyla smiled once more and kissed Sansa's copper curls before stepping away. "He knows of your gratitude, you needn't worry," she said softly before Sansa nodded and slid into her chambers for the night. As she made her way back to her and Jaime's room, Lyla admired the moon from the open archways. It was round and perfect and as white as the snow she missed so much. She'd been so intent on watching the moon she didn't even realize that she'd already made it to her room.

When she opened the door, she was greeted by a blast of warm heat, the kindling glow of the fireplace lighting the room. She undressed quickly and didn't bother pulling a robe on or slipping smallcothes over her naked frame as she made her way to the bed where Rose lay. The direwolf's head shot up when Lyla came near, and she wagged her tail gently.

"You know he won't like if you're sleeping beside me and not him," she murmured softly to the wolf, who whined as if she understood and hopped from the bed no sooner than Jaime had stepped in, bolting the door behind him. He was carrying his breastplate under his arm and set it on his desk. It was as if he didn't notice she was there, and Lyla stood nude beside their bed watching him, silent as a mouse.

He pulled off each piece of armor quietly, then his tunic and breeches, until he was naked but for his smallclothes and her favor, which he untied with care and placed gently on the wood top. When he finally looked up, raking a hand through his golden waves, his eyes drank her like she was the Dornish red he loved so much. "How long have you been here?" he asked as he neared her, cupping her cheeks in both palms and bringing his face down to kiss her deeply.

"Not much longer than you. Come now, let's rest. You'll need it for tomorrow," she said when their lips parted, sitting on the bed and patting the empty space beside her. He crawled over her and plopped down at her side, pulling the furs over them and wrapping his arms tightly around her, lips touching the back of her neck though he wasn't kissing her.

Feeling tired and ill, Lyla welcomed the comfort of him holding her in his arms and turned to face him, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He felt so warm and he smelled of sweat and dirt and horses, but she liked it. She liked everything about him- was growing to love everything about him. She moaned softly into his bare chest and kissed him there. "Goodnight, love," she murmured into his skin.

"Goodnight, my dear," Jaime mumbled sweetly into her hair, holding her tighter as sleep curled around the two of them, the wolf and her sweet, gentle lion.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

"I stood vigil for him myself," Ser Barristan Selmy said as they looked down at the dead body. "He had no one else. A mother in the Vale, I am told."

In the gentle morning light, the knight looked as though he were sleeping. It was the knight from the day before who was slain by Ser Gregor's lance; a homely boy, though death became of him, evening out his rough-hewn features and the silent sisters had dressed him in his best velvet tunic, high of collar to hide his ruined throat. Lyla looked to her father, lost in thought, and then to Ser Barristan.

"That was good of you, Ser Barristan. I'm sure if he could, he would have thanked you," she said, giving him a comforting smile.

He nodded to her. "Hough was Jon Arryn's squire for four years," he said. "The king knighted him before he rode north, in Jon's memory. The lad wanted it desperately, yet I fear he was not ready."

"It would seem not," Lyla observed, tracing a finger over the deep green velvet.

Beside her, Lord Eddard sighed. "None of us is ever ready," he said. He was tired, clearly, and he looked sore. She took his hand and gave him a smile, resting her head on his shoulder. Jaime woke her in the morning just before he went off with Ser Addam, and she decided to find her father after Carinya had finished dressing her in a gown of bright blue with a sash of rich crimson around her waist. He'd been in his solar when she found him, and he'd solemnly consented to let her join him for the day.

"For knighthood?" she asked him, brows knit together.

Eddard shook his head. "For death." He gently covered the young boy with his cloak, a bloodstained bit of blue bordered in crescent moons. She knew of what they had said to his mother, when she asked why her son had died, though Lord Eddard was loath to it. They'd told her he had died fighting for the honor of the King's Hand. "This was needless. War should not be a game," her father said before he turned to the woman beside the cart, shrouded in grey and face covered but for her brittle blue eyes. Silent sisters prepared men for the grave, and it was bad luck to look upon the face of death. "Send his armor home to the Vale. His mother will want to have it."

"It is worth a fair piece of silver," Ser Barristan said. "The boy had it forged special for the tourney. Plain work, but good. I do not know if he had finished playing the smith."

"He paid yesterday, my lord, and he paid dearly," Lyla replied to the white-haired knight.

Lord Eddard nodded, looking to the silent sister. "Send the mother the armor, I will deal with this smith." She bowed her head.

Afterward, Ser Barristan and Lyla walked with Ned to the king's pavilion. The camp was beginning to stir. Cooks began sizzling fat sausages on the spit over the firepits and the air was scented of garlic and pepper. Young squires ran all around on errands for their masters as they woke, yawning and stretching, to meet the day. A serving man, who carried a plump goose under his arm, bent the knee when he saw them. "M'lords, m'lady Lannister," he muttered, the goose honking and pecking his fingers.

Shields displayed outside each tent to mark its occupant: the silver eagle of Seagard, Bryce Caron's field of nightingales, a cluster of grapes for the Redwynes, brindled boar, red ox, burning tree, white ram, triple spiral, purple unicorn, dancing maiden, blackadder, twin towers, horned owl, the pure white blazons of the Kingsguard, and finally a golden lion of Lannister on a field of blood, shimmering bright amongst the others.

"The king means to fight in the melee today," Ser Barristan said as they passed Ser Meryn's shield, its paint sullied by a deep gash where Loras Tyrell's lance had scarred the wood as he drove him from his saddle. Lyla nodded in confirmation, remembering the heat that embodied Robert as he asserted his dominance as King over Cersei.

"Yes," her father said, grim.

Ser Barristan looked troubled. "They say night's beauties fade at dawn, and the children of wine are oft disowned in the morning light."

"They say so," Lord Stark agreed, "but not of Robert."

The king's pavilion was close to the riverside, and the morning mists of the river washed it in a grey cloak. It was all golden silk, the largest and the grandest structure in the camp. Outside the entrance, the king's warhammer was displayed beside and immense iron shield blazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.

Lord Eddard had earlier expressed his hopes in finding King Robert asleep when they entered his tent, but as they walked in they found him drinking beer from a polished horn, howling at two young squires. One of them was Lancel. "Your Grace," one was saying, nearly in tears, "it's made too small, it won't go." Lancel just stared brutally. The younger of the two fumbled with the buckles, and the gorget he was trying to fasten around Robert's neck fell to the fur-covered ground.

"Seven hells!" Robert cursed. "Do I have to do it myself? Piss on the both of you. Pick it up. Don't just stand there gaping, Lancel, pick it up!" Lancel jumped from the mention of his name, taring his eyes from Lyla's, and the king finally realized they were there. "Look at these oafs, Ned. My wife insisted I take these two to squires for me, and they're worse than useless. Can't even put on a man's armor on him properly. Squires, they say. I say they're swineherds dressed up in silk."

Lyla raised a brow and smiled at the king. "The boys are not at fault," she said to him. "You're too fat for your armor, your grace."

Robert took a long swallow of beer, tossed the empty horn onto his sleeping furs, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His voice was dark when he spoke. "Fat? Fat, is it? Is that how you speak to your king?" His facade fell and he burst into a storm of laughter then. "Ah, damn you, girl, why are you right?"

The squires smiled nervously until the king turned on them. "You heard the lady. The king is too fat for his armor. Go find Ser Aron Santagar. Tell him I need the breastplate stretcher. Now! What are you waiting for?"

Lancel and the other were tripping over each other in their haste to be gone from their king. Robert had held his stern face for as long as need be, but then he fell into a plush chair, howling with laughter.

Ser Barristan chuckled along with Robert, and even her father smiled, but Lyla couldn't shake the disgusting feeling she had after seeing Lancel. He had such a hatred for her, when he was the one who did wrong. His eyes told all. His sandy hair and the wisp of a mustache made him fair of face, but his deep, emerald green eyes were aged and ugly and terrible- and to think she once thought them like Jaime's.

"Ah, I wish I could be there to see Santagar's face," Robert said. "I hope he'll have the wit to send them to someone else. We ought to keep them running all day!"

"Those boys," Lord Stark asked him. "Lannisters?"

Robert nodded, wiping tears from his eyes. "Cousins. Sons of Lord Tywin's brother. One of the dead ones. Or perhaps the live one, now that I come to think on it. I don't recall. My wife comes from a very large family, Ned."

Her father's face fell, lost to thought. She knew what he was thinking without having to ask; there were far too many Lannisters in King's Landing, with ambitions higher than life. "The talk is you and the queen had angry words last night," he said.

The mirth curdled on Robert's face. "The woman tried to forbid me to fight in the melee. She's sulking in the castle now, damn her. Your sister would never have shamed me like that." His blue eyes traced to Lyla then and she felt unease crawl into her stomach, leaving her glad that she hadn't had a bite to eat yet.

"You never saw Lyanna as I did, Robert," her father told him. "You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath. She would have told you that you have no business in the melee."

"You too?" The king frowned. "You are a sour man, Stark. Too long in the north, all the juices have frozen inside you. Well, mine are still running." Robert slapped his chest as if to prove a point.

"You are the king," her father reminded him.

"I sit on the damn iron seat when I must. Does that mean I don't have the same hungers as other men? A bit of wine now and again, a girl squealing in bed, the feel of a horse between my legs? Seven hells, Ned, I want to hit someone."

Ser Barristan made his presence known once more. "Your grace," he said, "it is not seemly that the king should ride into the melee. It would not be a fair contest. Who would dare strike you?"

Robert seemed truly startled at the information. "Why, all of them, damn it. If they can. And the last man left standing..."

"...will be you," Lyla finished for him. The king looked baffled. The dangers of the melee were only a savor to Robert, but this touched on his pride. "Ser Barristan is right. There's not a man in the Seven Kingdoms who would dare risk your displeasure by hurting you."

Robert rose, face flushing like the rose that Loras had given Sansa the day before. "Are you telling me those prancing cravens will let me win?"

"For a certainty," her father said, and Barristan bowed his head silently.

For a simple moment, Robert looked as crazed as a Targaryen. He didn't speak, striding across the tent, whirling around, striding back, his eyes dark and his expression worse. He snatched up his breastplate and threw it at Barristan Selmy with a wordless fury. Selmy moved just slightly, dodging it. "Get out," the king hissed then, cold. "Get out before I kill you."

Ser Barristan left quickly, and Lyla was about to leave with her father when the king called them back. "Not you two."

When her father turned again, Robert grabbed his horn, filled it with ale from a barrel, and thrust it at him. "Drink," he said.

"I've no thirst-"

"Drink. Your king commands it. Girl, come sit with me."

Lyla bowed her head slightly and obeyed just as her father did, sitting beside the king as Ned wrinkled his nose and swallowed some of the black beer. "Damn you, Ned Stark. You and Jon Arryn, I loved you both. What have you done to me? You were the one who should have been king, you or Jon."

"You had the better claim, Your Grace," her father said quietly.

"I told you to drink, not argue. You made me king, you could at least have the courtesy to listen when I talk, damn you. Look at me, Ned. Look at what kinging has done to me. Gods, too fat for my armor, how did it come to this?"

"Robert..."

"Drink and stay quiet, the king is talking. I swear to you, I was never so alive when I was winning this throne, or so dead as now that I've won it. And Cersei... I have Jon Arryn to thank for her. I had no wish to marry after Lyanna was taken from me, but Jon said the realm needed an heir. Cersei Lannister would be a good match, he told me, she would bind Lord Tywin to me should Viserys Targaryen ever try to win back his father's throne." Robert shook his head slowly. "I loved that old man I swear it, but now I think he was a bigger fool than Moon Boy. Oh, Cersei is lovely to look at, truly, but cold... the way she guards her cunt, you'd think she had all the gold of Casterly Rock between her legs. Here, give me that beer if you won't drink it." He took the horn back and drank until it was empty, belched, and wiped his mouth. "I am sorry for the troubles on the King's Road, Ned. Truly. And you, girl. About almost killing the wolves, I mean. My son was lying, I'd stake my soul on it. My son... you love your children, don't you?"

Ned looked to Lyla and nodded. "With all my heart."

"Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that's what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers will love me. You know what stops me? The thought of Joffrey on the throne, with Cersei standing behind him whispering in his ear. My son. How could I have made a son like that, Ned?"

Her father looked at the king awkwardly. "He's just a boy," he said. "Have you forgotten how wild you were at his age?"

"It would not trouble me if the boy was wild, Ned You don't know him as I do." He sighed and shook his head. "Ah, perhaps you are right. Jon despaired of me often enough, yet I grew into a good king." There was an eerie silence in the room and Lyla looked to her father. "You might speak up and agree now, you know," Robert said.

"Your grace..." Lyla began, trying to save her father from the king.

Robert patted Lyla on the shoulder and slapped Ned's back. "Ah, say that I'm a better king than Aerys and be done with it." He looked to Lyla. "He never could lie for love nor honor, your father. I'm still young, and now that you're here with me, things will be different. We'll make this a reign to sing of, and damn the Lannisters to seven hells- but for Lyla here. I smell bacon. Who do you think our champion will be today? Have you seen Mace Tyrell's boy? The Knight of Flowers, they call him. Now there's a son any man would be proud to own to. Last tourney, he dumped the Kingslayer on his golden rump, you ought to have seen the look on Cersei's face. No offenses girl, but I laughed till my sides hurt. Renly says he has this sister, a maid of fourteen, lovely as a dawn..."

Lyla indulged Robert on his curiosities of Lady Margaery, having known her for years, and they went to break their fasts. There was black bread and boiled goose eggs and fish fried up with onions and bacon, at a table near the riverside, and Lyla listened dearly as her father and the king recounted on their boyhoods.

She ate hungrily, surprisingly, for how ill she'd felt when she woke to Jaime's soft kisses on her arm. She'd had toasted brown bread with a slap of butter and honey drizzled over it, orange-basted chicken with blossom salad, and two of the small chicken eggs, hard boiled and salted lightly, all washed down with a cup of milk.

Robert went on about his battles, winking to Lyla as he did, and she thought she hadn't had such a fun morning in nay on a week.

Lyla walked with Ned and Robert to the jousting field, but she'd made her father promise to watch the final tilts with she and Sansa; Septa Mordane was out ill, though Lyla knew that she must have been as hung-over as a green boy. As her father saw the king to his seat upon the raised wooden dais, Lyla went to where she sat the day before, where Sansa was already seated, eagerly awaiting the days festivities. Jeyne Poole wasn't in sight, so Lyla took a seat just beside her sister.

"Good morn, Sansa," she said warmly, patting her sister's hand. Sansa just smiled back though and turned her face towards the lists once more, awaiting Loras, no doubt.

Eddard found them just as the horn blew to begin the day's tilts, taking a seat on the other side of Sansa, who was clearly engrossed in the joust that lay at hand.

Sandor Clegane was the first to appear, wearing soot-grey armor with an olive colored cloak and his thick dog helm. He was to ride against Lyla's husband, and she bit her lip. Sandor looked fierce that day, and when Jaime left he looked half so confident as the man on the grounds now. Just as she thought of him, her husband rode up; he was adorned in ruby armor with gold trim, riding a blood bay stallion that day to compliment his choice of plate. His lance, fashioned from the golden wood of the Summer Isles, glittered in the sunlight.

She cheered for him and he blew a kiss her way, winking slyly as he lowered his visor and rode to the end of the lists. "A hundred golden dragons on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger called to the crowd as Jaime's squire worked to fix a shield to his arm.

"Done," Lord Renly shouted back. "The Hound has a hungry look about him this morning."

"Even hungry dogs know better than to bit the hand that feeds them," Petyr said dryly, taking a seat beside Lyla but not saying a word to her.

Sandor Clegane dropped his visor without care, the sound much like a snapping bone, and took his position. The horses broke into a gallop that caused the stands to tremble, and Lyla wished she'd been awake enough to tie her favor to Jaime's arm that morning. Th Hound leaned forward as he rode, his lance as steady as any could be, but Jaime shifted in his seat deftly the instant before impact, the lance instead smacked into the shield of gold with the lion blazon on it though his own hit square. Sandor slipped back in his seat but fought to stay atop it, wood shattering and chips flying all around. Sansa gasped and Lyla cheered along with the crowd, standing and clapping.

"I wonder how I ought to spend your money," Littlefinger called down to Renly.

The Hound had only just managed to stay atop his warhorse. He jerked on Stranger's reins roughly and rode hard back to the lists for the second pass. Jaime laughed confidently with his squire as he tossed down his broken lance and was given a fresh one. They both took off running once more. Both lances exploded, and by the time the splinters had settles Lyla watched as her husband's blood bay trotted riderless. Jaime lay in the dirt, armor dented and coughing.

"I knew the Hound would win," Sansa said quietly, and Lyla nodded. She'd known too. She clutched her favor in her hands and stood to go help Jaime when his golden lion helm was twisted too far for him to pull off and he strode around blindly, looking for something. The crowd was hooting and the high lords and ladies tried hard to stifle their laughter, even Lyla found herself chuckling as she grabbed Jaime's hand and led him away to the blacksmith. She would hear of the other tilts later from her father or Sansa.

"You great silly fool," she murmured to him, rubbing his arm affectionately as the smith worked to free his head. When the helm had to be cut from him, Lyla giggled and allowed the smith to trim at it- carefully, of course- though Jaime muttered about how stupid it all was.

The helm was removed safely and Lyla kissed him as soon as she caught sight of his lips. "If I'd have had your favor, I'm sure that I would have won. It's a lucky piece of cloth I swear it." Jaime told her, running his thumb along her cheek.

She rolled her eyes and took the favor from her hands, tying it to his arm. "Better late than never," she said, grinning.

After Jaime had been unarmored and dressed in fresh garb of pale green with gold filigree, they walked back to the stands, where Loras and Gregor Clegane were about to run. Ser Gregor's horse was angrily pawing at the ground, shaking his head and whinnying loudly. Lyla took a seat beside her father this time, rather back beside Littlefinger, and Jaime next to her. The horse reared and nearly threw the Mountain from the saddle.

Loras saluted the king, rode far to the end of the list, and crouched his lance, ready. "Loras!" The crowd cheered, and Lyla threw a happy smile at her old friend. Gregor brought his beat to line and it began suddenly. The Mountain's stallion broke a hard gallop, wild, while Loras' mare ran with a gate as silken as water, jolting full speed. Ser Gregor struggled to keep his steed in line and hold his lance and suddenly Loras was on him, placing the point of his lance just there. Before Lyla had time to gasp, the Mountain had fallen from his mount, the horse going down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh.

People cheered and sang their praises, but Lyla just held Jaime's arm tight, knowing that it couldn't end well. Loras reined back up to the lists, his lance unbroken. The commons went wild for him as he lifted his sapphire encrusted visor and gave a bright, charming smile to all.

Meanwhile, Gregor disentangled himself from his stallion and came to his feet, raging and red of face. He threw off his helm, black as night, and shouted to his squire for his sword to be brought to him, and so the boy obeyed. The horse had gotten to its feet by then- but didn't stay on them for long as Gregor slammed the steel into its neck and it went down, screaming in a fury. It was all silent but for a few terrified screams and the Mountain went after Loras. "Stop him!" Lyla and Eddard shouted in tandem, but by then the masses began hollering and yelling; Sansa was crying.

Loras shouted for his sword and Lyla stood, clutching the railing, feeling as if she was going to wretch out all of her morning meal. Gregor flung the squire aside and grabbed the reins of Loras' mare, swinging aimlessly at the Knight of Flowers. Loras fell to the dirt, his steed running off in a fright, and as Gregor's sword lifted up to steal the killing blow, a voice from the crowds screamed, "Leave him be!"

Gregor swung around in an arch behind him, but the Hound caught the blow and turned it, and for what seemed like an eternity the two brother stood hammering at each other as a dazed Loras Tyrell was helped to safety. "STOP THIS MADDNESS," came Robert Baratheon's stern voice as he boomed over the cries in the stands. "IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!" Twenty swords swung out at Gregor and Sandor, and the crowd hushed quickly.

Sandor bent the knee just before Gregor's sword sliced his head from his body, the sword hitting the air and at last the Mountain came to his senses. Glaring at the king, Ser Gregor threw down his sword and wordlessly turned and strode off. "Let him go," Robert commanded, and then that was that.

"Is the Hound the champion now?" Sansa asked their father.

"No," Jaime answered. "There will be one final joust between the Hound and the Knight of Flowers."

But Sansa had the right of it, and Loras came to Sandor's side, liquid gold eyes wide. "I owe you my life. The day is yours, ser."

"I am no ser," the Hound sneered, but accepted the victory all the same, as well as the champion's purse, and for what Lyla figured was the first time in his life, he accepted the love of the commons. They cheered soundly as he turned back to his pavilion, Loras bowing to him.

The day went on. A boy from the Dornish Marshes won the archery competition, and Thoros of Myr, in all his crimson glory, won the melee after three long hours. Lyla went with Jaime back to the Keep after the tourney was done, feeling just as tired as he, and kissed her father and her sisters goodbye, riding back to the city on Morrow's back.

To the stablehand's credit, her stallion was in good shape, well worked and scrubbed until he shone like blue-grey metal. Jaime rode the blood bay steed from earlier, rubbing its withers softly. "You rode well today," Lyla praised him, taking his hand and kissing the back of it.

"I could have ridden better by far," he replied, rolling his endless green eyes. He took her hand in his own and smiled down at her as they dismounted. "Are you sure you're not sick? You've seemed it lately... I could call for a maester?"

Lyla shook her head. "There won't be any to call this late anyways... In the morning I'll let one examine me as thoroughly as he pleases, but please can we sleep tonight?"

Jaime looked at her for long, even as he held his arm out for her and she laced her hand in the crook of his elbow. "I want you checked out tonight, Lyla. I'm worried..." He kissed the top of her head and pursed his lips. His concern was endearing and she sighed, defeated.

"Fine," She said, blunt. She felt tired, and just wanted to rest, but would allow Jaime's worries to be subsided. He smiled softly in thanks and they made haste in reaching their chambers, calling Carinya to fetch a maester as Lyla pulled a ribbon from her hair and loosed the plait it was in, wild curls flying all about her.

Jaime began undressing and pulled a thick velvet robe on over his smallclothes, Lyla doing the same. He went to the bathing chamber to freshen up before bed when the maester came.

It was Maester Frenkin, holding a large oak chest under his arm. He bowed and nodded to her, "My lady," he said as he placed the trunk on the table by the balcony. Carinya excused herself and with Jaime in the bathroom, it was just Lyla and the maester. He rolled his long, dagged sleeves up as best he could and eyed her. "You don't look sick."

"I'm sure I'm not," she replied as he placed his palm to her forehead. "But my husband worries." Maester Frenkin nodded and asked her to stick out her tongue. She did, but not before raising a brow in question. He popped the trunk open and pulled out a fresh sliver of wood, then pressed it down on her tongue as he inspected the insides of her mouth.

He frowned and she furrowed her brows. "Is something wrong?" She asked once he was away from her mouth. Instead of answering, he asked permission to touch her back, and she cautiously exposed it to him from under her robe. The cold flat of his palm graced a few spots on her back and asked her to cough- she did.

The maester shook his head. "You've got a slight fever, my dear."

"Slight fever?" She almost laughed. "In this sweltering heat, you're telling me I've caught cold? I haven't had one since I was a little girl, back in Winterfell."

"I'm sure it's just due to the change of temperature- every ones body reacts differently, at different times. I'll leave this," he pulled a fair sized bottle the color of cream from his trunk. "Drink some in your milk every morning and some with water every night, and you'll be good as new, my lady. If you need more, however long this sickness will stick to you, you need just call for me."

She nodded, still chucking to herself. "Sick," she snorted softly, looking to where Jaime had stepped back into the room, washed off and redressed in his robe. "I have a bloody fever."

Jaime laughed too then, and the maester gave her a toothy smile before packing his trunk up and bidding them farewell for the night, reminding her to drink from the vile every morning and every night, only the smallest amount. "A fever," Jaime said, as if he couldn't believe it.

"It's silly, truly," Lyla agreed, blowing out a few of the fat wax candles before poking the fire and crawling into bed with her husband. She didn't curl up close to him, for the fear he might catch her sick, but he damned it when she voiced her reasons, pulling her across the bed and onto his torso.

"Don't be stupid, sweet girl. I couldn't sleep without you if I tried," he murmured, kissing her lips softly.

She laughed and cupped his cheek in her palm. "Goodnight," she said, pressing her mouth to the tip of his nose.

Sleep came easily enough, wrapped in Jaime's warm arms, and that night she dreamed of Winterfell for the first time since she'd arrived in King's Landing.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

It was beautiful in the gardens; the trees were in full bloom with fruits swelling on the branches, flowers blossoming left and right in pastels of all sorts, and as they rested in the shade and watched the prince and princess bathe in the shimmering sunlight until their skin glowed like facets of diamonds, Jaime thought he couldn't have been more content.

Lyla lay wrapped under his arm, curled to his body in a thin yellow silk gown with her thick curls spiraling around her, her head on his chest and her arms holding him close. She was tired from her sickness of nearly two weeks, but her strength was quickly returning to her, enough so that she was able to entertain the children for the day. Myrcella and Tommen were mere feet from them, sitting on a thick blue blanket with a basket full of treats from the kitchens, playing tea party at the princess' insistence.

"More tea, Tommen?" Myrcella asked, lifting the ivory teapot, her little finger pointed to the sky.

Tommen wrinkled his nose at the scent of it as wind blew the air of the tea into his face, but Myrcella narrowed her eyes and he quickly nodded, shoving his glass cup out to her. Lyla laughed under her breath and Jaime kissed her forehead.

They'd now been married nearly three weeks, a whole moon's turn by the time her name day came upon the next few days, and he'd loved every moment of it- even through her sickness. She was a simple woman with little needs, even when sick, and it made it all the easier to appreciate her. Cersei had been demanding and even when she got what she wanted, she asked for more, but Lyla only took what she needed and nothing else. It was easy to dote on a woman who didn't crave it, but relished in it.

"Myrcella, can I have some sugar cubes?" asked Tommen, who looked down at his plain tea with distaste, lips puckered as though he'd already suckled on its bitterness.

"No," said the princess in return. "Ask nicely, like I taught you."

The little prince rolled his eyes, green as grass, and reached for the sugar himself. His sister swatted his hand, however, and he retreated it. "Alright! May I please have some sugar cubes, my lady?" he huffed, face scrunched up in irritation.

Myrcella grinned brightly and passed the plate of pristine white sugar cubes to her brother. "Yes, you may," she said sweetly, and he felt Lyla smile into his silk green top.

"I've never been one for tea," his wife murmured as she sat up, resting her hands in her lap.

Jaime nodded. "I hate it," he admitted, chuckling softly as Tommen dripped some of the tea onto the blanket and Myrcella glared at the spot and then him.

"Uncle Jaime, will you and Aunt Lyla ever have a daughter? I can't play tea with Tommen or Joff..." She trailed off at the mention of her elder brother's name and Jaime blinked, shocked, looking down at his wife.

Lyla looked shocked too, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. She turned to Jaime and then back Myrcella, laughing. "I don't know, princess. It may be a few months, a few years... It takes time to make babies." Her hand went to her stomach and she patted it before laying it over Jaime's. He curled his fingers through the empty spaces between hers.

"I want you to have a boy. That way I can play knight with somebody." Tommen looked down and sighed, and Myrcella reached over to take his hand in hers. The price and princess had a strong relationship, both being ignored by their parents and relying on each other for love and support. It was much like his own relationship with Cersei, only theirs had turned to something it should never had been.

He looked down when he heard Lyla exhale, and she scooted from him slightly, opening her arms wide to the children. Tommen's eyes shot up and he smiled so brightly that Jaime's heart twisted. He rose and toddled to where Lyla held her arms out and curled himself onto her lap. Myrcella watched, hesitating before joining her brother resting on the grass beside her, in between her and Jaime.

His wife looked so natural with a child on her lap, and he observed intently as she ran her fingers through Tommen's gold waves and rubbed Myrcella's back. "You're going to have a cousin one day, I promise. Maybe two or three," Lyla said, pressing her lips to his forehead.

"What about five?" Myrcella asked, innocent green eyes glinting as the sun rose higher.

"Five is rather a lot," Lyla said, raising her brows.

"Your mother had six," the princess pointed out, folding her arms decidedly.

"Aye, my mother did have six," his wife agreed, and Tommen sprawled out on her lap, yawning. "And your mother had three, and her mother before her three."

Myrcella's golden brows knit together. "My mother never talks of my grandmother. I never got to see her... I asked grandfather once, but he got so angry." She trailed off and Jaime placed a hand on her shoulder.

"He's still heart broken, dearest," he said, kissing the top of her golden head. "It doesn't help that you look just like her, either."

The princess beamed immediately, smiling and leaning into his chest, scooting closer to him. "But grandmother was beautiful," she said in awe. "Am I truly like her?"

He nodded and raised both brows when the little girl crawled onto his lap- Cersei had never allowed such a close proximity. "Exactly. I still remember her from when I was a boy." Jaime turned sad then, but laughed is surprise when Myrcella wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close, giggling her thanks. When he glanced to his wife, Tommen had fallen asleep in her lap and she was toying with his golden waves, leaning on the tree behind them and humming softly.

He remembered hearing her hum before, and sighed at its sweet sound, holding Myrcella in his arms awkwardly as he twisted his seat on the grass to lean closer to Lyla. She looked up at him and smiled warmly, curling into his body as best as she could with Tommen softly snoring on her. She was a sweet sight, laying in the shade of a plum tree, surrounded by flowers and holding the child so close in the calm of the early noon, hand interlocking with his.

Myrcella's eyes were shutting slowly and Jaime rocked her back and forth as he'd seen Cersei done with Joffrey and the milkmaids with the prince and princess. When she was asleep, he rested his head back, feeling as her little chest rose and fell and her waterfall of sunshine began to twist in the wind. "You're natural with her," he heard Lyla comment softly, and he turned his head to face her.

"Am I quite?" He looked down at the sleeping Myrcella, arms curled around his neck and body hanging on his. He thought it must have looked awkward to see him with a child, so content. "Not as natural as you with the prince," he said, "I think he rather enjoys you."

"I enjoy him too. He's very sweet. They both are." She unlaced their fingers and ran her palm down the princess' arm absentmindedly. "Jaime?"

"Hm?"

"Do you truly want any? Children, that is..." She was staring at the prince now, who yawned in his sleep and wrapped his arms around her waist, smiling through his dreams.

He furrowed his brows. "Why not," he said, taking her hand again. She rolled her eyes at that answer, and he pressed his lips to hers softly. "All with brown hair and blue eyes, I hope," he mused, grinning. "I enjoy your looks too much for my own good, it would only be better to have a little one with them."

"Really, though, Jaime. I'm being serious. Do you want children?" she asked.

"I want children," he assured, giving her a smile, "and I want them with you. There will be no doubting that, yes? You're my wife, Lyla." He raised his hand up and cupped her cheek. "Come, let's get these two to their rooms."

They'd walked with a child each in their arms, Myrcella clinging to her uncle and Tommen to his aunt. Once they were safely tucked into their own rooms, Jaime and Lyla had reverted back to their chambers, the balcony doors open and the drapes swaying in the slight breeze as the hot day cooled. Jaime sat at his desk and stayed hunched over papers while his wife sat before him and watched.

"Must you really do all of this work? It seems so laborious..." Lyla traced her fingertip gently over the feather pen. "You've been writing for the past hour, Jaime."

He looked up, raising a brow. "I'm making sure that Casterly Rock has provisions to accommodate us when we travel there," he told her, nodding down at the countless papers on his desk. "We've already spent nearly a moon of the three that we have left in King's Landing, dear.

Lyla frowned, eyes clouding. "Already so many weeks? I'd nearly forgotten that night..." He knew she meant their dinner with Tywin the night before the wedding, where she agreed to leave in three months' time, and set his quill down when she looked away towards the setting sun. The gold and crimson washed over her and her river blue eyes melted into a deep blood ruby, the red hues in her curls enhanced.

"We'll be here to celebrate your name day with them," he reminded her, reaching out and taking her hand in his. It was so soft and tender, molding so well with his. "And we can ride to visit every name day after. Mayhaps I can invite them to the Rock. We'll hold a feast and..."

"... Jaime, I don't want a feast." Lyla rose and pulled her hand from his, turning from him and resting her head on the wall.

He stood too, though his mind bid him return to the paperwork he needed to finish within the hour and send out as soon as possible. "What is it, Lyla?" He asked, moving in front of her and resting his hand on her cheek. She leaned away from it though and sighed. "Don't hide from me again, sweet girl. I've only just seen you."

She looked up and spared the slightest smile before looking down again. He felt his heart twist and his stomach churn at her expression of sadness and wondered if that was what Robert Baratheon felt whenever he saw Lyanna upset. "I miss them already. My family and I... We're so close Jaime. I'm scared of losing that. Of seeing them once a year and still having nothing to talk about... What of Jon? He promised he would write and I've only gotten one letter. Theon promised... I haven't gotten any from Theon... I'm already becoming a stranger." As she went on her voice began to falter and he wrapped his arms around her tightly, rubbing her back.

"Shh. Lyla I told you, I'll take you to see them. I will, truly. Come, darling, don't be so sad. Am I such horrible company?"

Jaime felt his wife release a soft chuckle against his chest as she reached her arms up and around his neck, holding him as she had the day they first kissed. "Not always," she said softly, leaning into him as he walked them towards the bed and laid her down, sitting on the edge. "Will you take me to see them whenever I want? Or have them see us? Do you mean it?"

"I would promise it a hundred times, Lyla." Her smile melted him and he leaned down to wipe a silvery tear from her eye, back to their sparkling blue now that they lay in the shade of their bed. "You know, it doesn't have to take months and years to make a child..." he whispered, trailing his finger up her ankle to her navel, kissing it until she giggled and shoved his head away.

"Does it not?" She raised a brow in jest and smirked, placing her hands on either side of his face and pulling him in for a kiss. Her lips were salty from her tears but he enjoyed them nonetheless, nibbling at them and running over them with his tongue. She arched her body against his and he grabbed her hands with his, lifting them and holding them above her head.

"It does not," he hummed to her, suckling gently on her neck, marking her as his and his alone. "Not if we try. I'll show you how." She laughed, but it soon died down as he ran his hands along the sweet curves of her body and moved to her laces, pulling at them desperately.

Lyla knew what he meant to do and simply ripped the corset of her gown in the front, sliding it off. "I never liked yellow," she said with a grin as he tore the rest of the gown from her and tossed it across the room. Her naked form was evident before him and his brow arched.

"Too hot for smallclothes this morn?" He asked, pressing his lips to the mark that was darkening on her neck, sliding down to the hollow of her throat and then her collarbone.

"Too impatient," his wife breathed, and he smirked into her teat as he took it in his mouth and she gasped. "Gods."

Her nipple was growing in his mouth and he toyed with it with his tongue, cupping the other breast with his free hand and rubbing it gently. Her skin tasted sweetly of roses and smelled even more so, and he knew he must smell the same; he might have been marking Lyla as his own ostentatiously, but his wife was far more subtle, having him bathe in the scent he'd only ever known her to wear.

As Jaime began to lower himself on her, she sat up and took his head in her hands. "No," she said softly, shaking her head so her curls swayed. "Lay down." He furrowed his brows and hesitated until she commanded him again. "Lay down, Jaime."

He complied, lying beside her with his arms at his side. His erection was obvious against his stick straight frame and he wondered what she was doing until he felt her straddle him and press sweet kisses down his torso and to his pelvis. "What are you doing?" He asked, head tilting in question.

"I'm pleasing you the way you please me," she told him, positioning herself between his legs.

"How can we possibly try when you're down there?" He questioned, pausing slightly.

"I guess we'll know when we get to that point, won't we?" She flicked her tongue across his pelvis coyly. "Don't bother arguing," she added, winking and taking him in her hand. The embrace of her palm and fingers to his shaft was warm and welcomed, and he couldn't help but grunt slightly.

Her hand pumped slowly, tenderly, and when he felt her lips touch the tip of him, he clenched the sheets with his hands, holding them tightly. Slowly, she lowered her mouth onto him, getting as low as the full head before pulling back up. It was so moist and felt so nice that he pursed his lips and watched her, waiting for her to take him with her sweet mouth again.

However, she glanced up at him and her innocent smile turned to a smirk; she knew what she needed to, to know that she'd had him in the palm of her hand- quite literally. She stuck her tongue out slowly and traced the tip of it along the growing length of his erection before taking the tip of it in her mouth again and he shivered.

"Do you enjoy this?" She questioned quietly, pumping him once more, dangerously light of hand.

"Too much," he muttered, breathless. "But I believe you take more in your mouth, dear." She flushed slightly before a look of steel determination smoothed her features and she stared at his cock as though it were a obstacle to overcome.

She ran her tongue along the length again, longer and covering more space now, and when her mouth covered his shaft it got a little further than the middle, her tongue toying with the amount that filled her mouth. She didn't bother releasing him from the constraints of her opening fully before she went down again, going even further.

His throat rippled and he groaned, one of his hands removing itself from the sheet and locking into his wife's soft brown curls. As her tongue played with his erection and her mouth moved up and down the length of it, it slid over a tender spot and he gasped loudly, moaning. "Please," was all he had to utter as she ran her tongue over the spot again and again, never staying the movement of her mouth.

Her teeth would hit him every once in a while, but she was otherwise a natural at what she did, just as she seemed to be a natural at everything, and he began thrusting into her mouth slightly, her tongue flicking over the spot.

Lyla reached a hand up to the one he had interlocked in the bed covers and held it as she worked below his waist, pumping with her fist and her mouth. He hadn't felt it this way; so coy and shy and blissful, and he relished in the feel. "I'm close," he warned, knowing he wouldn't last much longer with her mouth over his cock, and he pulled her up, flipping them over and waiting for her to nod before thrusting himself inside of her.

She was wet and ready, tight as a maid still, and he could have finished then, but forced himself to hold on. She wrapped herself close to him and he reached a hand down between them, rubbing her softly as he moved inside of her, rhythmic at first but then more desperately.

"Jaime," she gasped as his fingers locked around the nub that contained all her pleasure. "Oh gods." She pushed against him as he fucked her, fingers curling into his long golden waves. He lost all control as she rolled her hips against him in a way that increased the tight proximity and her walls began closing as he rubbed the pleasure point between his fingers, and spilled himself inside of her, continuing to thrust into her even after, still hard for a while but slowly softening.

When he could no longer continue to thrust, he simply wrapped his arms around her and pulled out, lying beside her. "Don't use the chamberpot after this," he told her, "not for at least a few hours. And don't clean yourself off." She nodded and looked up at him with a bright grin.

"We're really doing this," she said as though she didn't believe it. "We're really trying."

Jaime kissed her softly, smiling against her lips as he nodded. "I'll never get any work done when I'm with you, will I?" They both looked at his desk, full of parchment and ink and quills, and laughed.

"No, I'm afraid not," she whispered to him, pulling furs over their naked forms. "But I'm sure if we keep trying like this, you won't mind nearly half as much as you think you do."

Jaime didn't know when he fell asleep, only that by the time he woke up the balcony doors were closed, the fireplace was ablaze, and Lyla was sitting at his desk, taking pen to paper.

"Good, you're awake," she said, not looking up from her parchment. It was bright out, brighter than before, and he felt as his brows knit together.

"How long have I been asleep?" He asked, sitting up and rubbing his head, wave of gold catching in his fingers.

"Long," his wife replied, pausing her writing for a moment to look up at him with a knowing smirk before resuming her work. "I didn't know I could please you enough to make you sleep so well. You've been out since early evening yesterday."

He rubbed his eyes, feeling sleep fall from them. "And what time is it now?"

She looked up again and grinned even more wickedly. "It's early evening."

Early evening? It couldn't be. Jaime eyed his wife more carefully and noticed that she'd bathed, freshly since her hair was still in damp curls around her face, and the yellow gown was discarded, a new one of deep crimson laced to her slight form instead, her silver locket clasped to her neck. He was about to ask why she didn't wake him, but since he'd been caring for her for two weeks throughout her sickness this was the most refreshed he'd woken. "What are you writing?" He asked instead.

"Letters. This one is to Jon, the others," she gestured at a handful of rolled and sealed- with the Lannister sigil- letters, "are for my family in Winterfell." She trailed off, beginning to write again. When she finished and rolled the letter, sealing and stamping it with blood red wax, her eyes met his once more. "I thought we could take a walk."

"A walk?" He rolled from their bed, stretching, not bothering to hide his nudity.

She rose and tossed him a robe, calling for a maid. "Yes, a walk," she said, smiling. When Carinya came in, Lyla handed her all the letters. "Keep them safe, send this one," she pointed to the one on top, "to the Wall. The others go to Winterfell. Thank you." Her handmaid nodded and took her leave, and when it was just they two, Lyla returned to the desk. "Dress," she commanded, looking up at him from the paperwork that she began filing; the papers into their individual boxes and pulling the drawers open to place the inkpots and quills in them before closing them.

He rolled his eyes playfully when she looked back up at him. "When did you become so demanding, little wife? I feel as though you grow bolder by the day." Lyla raised a brow and folded her arms, standing straight. "Alright, I'll dress," he surrendered, holding his hands up and opening the wardrobe. "Why is it you insist on walking with me? Conscience of your figure?"

"I just want to get out of our room... I've been in here all day waiting for you to get up." He was pulling a thin doublet of amethyst over his head, slipping his arms into the sleeves, when she spoke up, and he glanced up at her.

"You could have gone and done something, Lyla, you're not a prisoner."

She smiled and made her way to him, wrapping her arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder. "Of course I'm not, Jaime. I just didn't want you to get lonely up here by yourself..." She looked up at him and kissed his cheek before grabbing a pair of sleet grey breeches for him and tossing him some black boots. "Hurry up, I told Jory I'd see Rose before dark."

He dressed quickly, Lyla grabbed his cloak for him, and they were out of the room in no time, heading toward the Tower of the Hand. It was growing colder and he was glad that she'd remembered his cloak as he clasped it on, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "If you don't want a feast for your name day, what did you want? It's coming close," he said, looking down at her.

"Four days," she mumbled, nodding. "I don't want anything. I'd be happy just seeing everyone and spending the day with you." Lyla smiled and touched her locket, huddling closer to him as wind picked up.

Jaime leaned down and kissed her forehead. "I'm sure that can be arranged." When the tower was in sight, Lyla grinned widely and ran in front of him, giggling happily like the young girl of fifteen, nearly sixteen, that she was.

"Jory!" She called as her father's guard came into view, and she leaped at him, laughing when he lifted her and spun her. "Where is my wolf, Jory? I do miss her."

The guard smiled at his lady and nodded towards the castle. "Here," he said as Jaime neared. "Rose!" He howled, and after a hesitation, there was a scattering of paws against cobble floor and out came the direwolf, ever growing and bounding towards its master.

The wolf, pale brown of fur with large copper eyes, panted excitedly, jumping at Lyla so enthusiastically that his wife fell to the grass, chuckling and wrapping her arms around the direwolf. It was as large as a pony, its tail creating a heavy wind as it flicked back and forth. "Down, sweet. Down," She murmured to the wolf, sitting up and patting its shoulder softly.

Jaime shook his head, smiling jestingly. Holding his arm out for her, he helped her up and brushed her down, "Are you alright?" He asked, brushing his thumb over her cheek.

"I'm fine, mother," she replied, grinning and winking. "It's my wolf, she won't harm me."

Rose whimpered and Jaime looked down at her, running his fingers through her fur and rubbing her behind the ears. He opened his mouth to speak but Lyla gasped and opened her arms.

"Father!" She hollered, smiling. He'd been with Lyla almost every day the past near three weeks that they'd been married and the days he hadn't were when Loras visited her and when her ladies had visited her, both times while he was out training with Ser Addam, and neither times had Eddard Stark come to see her. He knew the job of the King's Hand was demanding, but he could have seen her at least once or twice- he chose not to.

Eddard looked up at his daughter with a somber expression and her smile faded with the blowing wind. "Father, has something happened? Are the girls okay?" She buried her hand in Rose's fur and she cocked her head to the side, holding her breath.

He just shook his head. "Jory, collect Sansa and Arya by any means. Have the men gather their things and saddle the horses. Get the wagons ready."

"Father, what's-"

"I am taking the girls from King's Landing."

She stared at him in disbelief, mouth gaping. "Lord Stark what is the meaning of this? You're the King's Hand." Jaime crossed his arms and raised a brow, eying Lyla and then her father.

His sleet grey eyes were darkening by the second. "I've defied the King's wishes, and am no longer in his service. Jory, go! I'll not waste another second in this capitol that I can use to get out of it. Lyla, walk with me."

Jaime watched as his wife's eyes filled with worry and she knelt down, kissing Rose's head and whispering, "Home," to her ear. The wolf perked up and began to pad in the direction of the Tower of the Hand, but she turned. "Home, Rose," Lyla commanded once more, and the wolf sprang back to them, purposely sitting beside she and Jaime.

"She is home here," Jaime murmured to her, but she shook her head.

"King Robert won't allow her anywhere but the Tower of the Hand unless she's finished with her training now, the maids are all scared of her." She rubbed the wolf's head and nodded to Jory, who whistled and took the direwolf with him as he hurried into the tower again. "Father, tell me of what happened. Why aren't you the Hand?"

"We'll speak about it behind closed doors," said her father. "Come. Kingsla... Ser Jaime, you come too. This affects you as it does my daughter."

They made their way to his solar in utter silence, but for the sound of their shoes clicking against the hard floors. Lyla gripped his hand so tight her knuckles paled to white. Once safely in his study, she released his hand and went to her father, who sat behind his large oak desk.

"Tell me," she insisted, sitting in front of him. Jaime stood behind her hair, placing his hands on her shoulders.

Lord Stark inhaled and exhaled deeply, looking towards the window as he brooded. "Robert has taken it upon himself to vie for the death of Daenerys Targaryen," he said after a while.

Lyla looked baffled. "Daenerys is not Rhaegar Targaryen, she had nothing to do with my aunt's death. Besides, she's so young... If he must kill a Targaryen to fill his blood lust, can he not kill the Beggar King, Viserys?"

"Prince Viserys has been crowned by her Khal husband," her father said darkly. "With molten gold."

Lyla blinked and Jaime watched as her hand reached up, grabbing it with his. Eddard didn't miss the action. "If Viserys is dead and her husband is a horse lord, then how is it that the king has any anger left? The Dothraki don't cross the Narrow Sea, father. It doesn't make sense for him to be cross."

The man took another deep breath. "She's pregnant."

"Pregnant?" It was Jaime who spoke that time, startling himself- he'd aimed to remain quiet while his wife and her father spoke. "The girl is a child of thirteen-"

"She's fourteen now," Lord Stark corrected, pursing his lips. "Girls have gotten with child younger than that." When Jaime glanced down, he noticed Lyla's hand was curled over her stomach, covering it.

She looked up at her father with steel eyes. "I will speak to the king about this," she said, determined. "I will tell him his wrongs. He will listen to me."

"If he didn't listen to your father, he certainly won't listen to you, Lyla." Jaime shook his head, squeezing her hand. "I've known him long, and when he makes up his mind, its made for good." Eddard nodded in agreement, though it was hesitant.

Lyla rose, crossing her arms. "He will listen to reason," she affirmed, holding her head high. Jaime had only ever seen Lyanna Stark once, at the tourney at Harrenhal, but when he saw his wife standing there with her firm fortitude and clenched jaw, he though her a ghost of her aunt. Mayhaps if she stood that way, Robert would listen after all.

A knock on the door halted any further conversation. A fat head popped in, Stark's man, Tomard, and he shifted uncomfortably at the sight of Jaime. "Lord Baelish to see you, m'lord," he said to Eddard.

"Show him in, Tom," Lord Stark ordered, shuffling with some papers at his desk. Petyr Baelish looked sinister in a slashed velvet doublet of cream-and-silver, a grey silk cloak trimmed in black fox, and his devilish smirk, sauntering in as though the air weren't thick with tension as it was.

"Might I ask the reason for this visit, Lord Baelish?" It was Lyla who asked the question, eying the short man warily.

Baelish smiled at her, then looked to Eddard. "I won't detain you long, I'm on my way to dine with Lady Tanda. Lamprey pie and roast suckling pig. She has some thought to wed me to her younger daughter, so her table is always astonishing. If truth be told, I'd sooner marry a pig, but don't tell her. I do love lamprey pie."

"Don't let me keep you from your eels, my lord," Lord Stark grumbled with ice in his voice. "At the moment, I cannot think of anyone whose company I'd desire less than yours."

"Oh, I'm certain if you put your mind to it, you could come up with a few names. Varys, say. Cersei. Or Robert. His Grace is most wroth with you. He went on about you at some length after you took your leave of us this morning. The words insolence and ingratitude came into it frequently, I seem to recall."

Lyla sneered with disdain when Littlefinger took a seat beside her, despite the fact that Eddard had not offered one. "My father is neither of those things. He did what was honorable," she defended, though her father shook his head at her.

"Honor goes so far, but what of the rest of the road that is left to cover, sweet Lady Lannister, when honor means no more?" Petyr grinned, eying her father with his deep grey-green eyes, the color of rotten peas. "After you stormed out, it was left to me to convince them not to hire the Faceless Men," he continued. "Instead Varys will quietly let it be known that we'll make a lord of whoever does in the Targaryen girl."

Lord Stark glowered, disgusted. "So now we grant titles to assassins."

"Titles are cheap," Littlefinger pointed out with a shrug. "The Faceless Men are expensive. If truth be told, I did the Targaryen girl more good than you with all your talk of," he looked to Lyla then, "honor. Let some sellsword drunk on visions of lordship try to kill her. Likely, he'll make a botch of it, and afterward the Dothraki will be on their guard. If we'd sent a Faceless Man after her, she'd be as good a buried."

Lyla opened her mouth, but Eddard spoke. "You sit in council and talk of ugly women and steel kisses, and now you expect me to believe that you tried to protect the girl? How big a fool do you take me for?"

"Well, quite an enormous one, actually," said Lord Baelish, laughing.

"Do you always find murder so amusing, Lord Baelish?" Lyla asked, fuming.

He smiled innocently. "It's not murder I find amusing, Lady Lannister, it's your father. He rules like a man dancing on rotten ice. I daresay he will make a noble splash. I believe I heard the first crack this morning."

"The first and last," said Ned. "I've had my fill."

Petyr tilted his head. "When do you mean to return to Winterfell, my lord?"

"As soon as I can," his wife's father replied. "What concern is that of yours?"

Lyla reached for his hand again and Jaime readily took it, kissing her knuckles; both Eddard and Petyr were watching then. "None... but if perchance you're still here come evenfall, I'd be pleased to take you to this brothel your man Jory has been searching for so ineffectually." Petyr smiled. "And I won't even tell the Lady Catelyn."

Lord Baelish left with a flourish and Lyla prickled when his fingertips graced her chair. "What brothel? What about mother?" She questioned, tightening her hold on Jaime's hand. "What's going on?"

Eddard Stark stared at his daughter for long before uttering his House words with caution and darkness lurking around each syllable.

"Winter is coming."


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

"Are you sure?" Lyla stared at Maester Frenken with wide, anxious eyes, hands lying flat over her stomach from where she sat in a chair by the hearth, face twisted in a sort of fearful wonderment.

The red haired maester smiled at her and nodded. "I'm as sure as the sun will set come nightfall. You and your lord husband are expecting."

She shook her head, curls of brown blurring her vision from the ferocity of it. "It cannot be. We've been trying for less than a week... You're absolutely certain?"

Frenken laughed and patted her hand. "For someone whose trying at all, I'd think you would be happy, my lady." When she just looked back down at her stomach and gulped, loud and obvious, he continued. "My lady, you've been in the capitol for a long while, and married for a moon's cycle to be sure, and have you had your moon's bleeding once?"

He'd already asked her before, and she shook her head all the same as she had the first time; absentmindedly. She hadn't had time to remember that she was supposed to bleed, what with the wedding and the sickness- the sickness! "Maester Frenken, how is it I could be carrying a child if I was sick with fever these past few weeks? You told me I was sick yourself."

"Aye, I did, my lady," he said, "and it is common for women to become sick with fever within the early stages of their pregnancy. Her Grace, Queen Cersei, was sick for a whole month when she was swollen with both Prince Joffrey and Princess Myrcella." But not Tommen, surely. He is always so easy...

"How far?" Lyla asked, staring at her belly. It was as flat as it had been when she first met Jaime in Winterfell, and now it was full with his child. Their child. "How... far along am I?"

Maester Frenken pressed a few fingers below where her hands rested and looked up at her. "When was your last bleeding, Lady Lannister?"

"We were on the King's Road..." Her brows furrowed and she looked at him, into his curious, crystal blue eyes, straight red hair tied back behind him. "I was supposed to have my blood just after the wedding... Could it be... This whole time..."

He nodded. "I suspect from your very first coupling you've been with child. Or at least one close to it- forgive me but I shan't ask for details."

She blushed slightly, remembering the day after their wedding, how they'd rutted at least four times through the hours that the sun was still high in the sky. Then she felt like a dumb, silly child. How could she not remember her moon's blood, when she'd been having it so regularly for four years now? "I really am, aren't I..." she whispered it mostly to herself, biting her lip.

A smile grew, tugging on the corners of her mouth, and she wrapped her arms fully around her belly. "I'm going to have a child," she exclaimed excitedly, leaning out of her chair and hugging the maester, bouncing on her seat giddily. She was scared to death but the surreal feeling that she was carrying a child, her and Jaime's little wolf, took over her senses.

"Yes, my lady," Frenken replied, laughing as she released him and they both rose.

"Thank you so much," she said, teary eyed now.

"Don't thank me, my lady," he said modestly, smiling. "Thank your husband."

She nodded, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You have my gratitude yet. I wish I could be coming to you and you alone for all my needs, Maester, but my husband and I are leaving for Casterly Rock in just a few days' time."

"Should you need anything until then, don't fret in calling on me. I'm always available." He bowed his head and packed his trunk, leaving with a sweeping and quiet shutting of her bedroom doors.

She'd sent for him because she'd been sick that morning for the first time in a week and she was worried she'd caught the fever again; she certainly hadn't been prepared to hear that she was carrying a baby, though it was better news than knowing she was sick again. She sat down and began humming, holding her stomach.

She wondered if this was what her mother felt like, when she learned she was pregnant with Robb after her and Lord Eddard's first coupling. Scared, fearful, but so overzealous that none of that mattered. Lyla had never imagined herself to be a mother- a wife, sure, but never a mother- and now she couldn't help picturing it. A little boy with thick near-black waves and big grey eyes, a Stark through and through with the temperament of her lord father. Tywin, she mused to herself, I'll name him Tywin.

It was still early in the morning, and she stared at the room before her, full of clothes and trunks, looking so barren now that they were packed to leave and living out of their boxes for the next few days. She wondered how Jaime would react to know that he was to be a father so soon, that she was probably a moon's turn along. Part of her thought he would be as excited as she, but another thought that he would be upset or halt their plans to travel because he didn't want to ride with a pregnant highborn like Lord Tywin had said.

She sighed, rubbing her stomach. She couldn't hide this from Jaime; he would find out sooner or later, and she'd rather tell him now than deal with his possible strife farther down the road. Rising once more, she made her way to the balcony, stretching her arms along the length of the bannister. The sun was midway in the lavender sky, bright and white, glittering like diamonds. Closing her eyes, she let the heat embody her.

She could hear birds singing, feel the wind as it gently tugged on her loose curls and the dagged sleeves of her deep ruby gown, lined in gold. It was then that she felt the first raindrop, and she opened her eyes, looking up at the sky with excitement. It hadn't rained in King's Landing in the month or over that she had been there, and as it began to pour over her, she began to laugh.

It was warm outside and the cool kiss of the raindrops made her feel like she was in Winterfell again, as the dark clouds took over and the water washed down on her. When she heard voices below, she raised a brow and leaned over the balcony to look down at the hill that she and Jaime's chamber was facing. There were two men on steeds of ivory and deep burgundy.

"He was the King's Hand. Doubtless Robert asked him to see that they were provided for," said a short-seated man in awkward southern garb, and she narrowed her eyes to see his pointy black beard and smug smirk. Petyr Baelish.

There was a man beside him, taller with slick wet hair that was black from the rain water. She studied him for only half a second before she recognized him as her lord father, Eddard Stark. He looked soaked and upset. "It had to be more than that, or why kill him?" He pondered, looking towards Littlefinger.

Baelish shook rain from his short straight hair and laughed. "Now I see. Lord Arryn learned that His Grace had filled the bellies of some whores and fishwives, and for that he had to be silenced. Small wonder. Allow a man like that to live, and next he's like to blurt out that the sun rises in the east."

Her father frowned, and Lyla heard her bedroom door open and close. "Renly's gone out for a sit with his brother, so I figured I'd come keep you company... Lyla, what are you doing out in the rain?" It was an all too familiar voice, and she beckoned the speaker towards her without so much as turning to make sure of who it was.

"Do you see my father down there? It is he who I would be worried about, the way he is with Lord Baelish right now." Something was wrapped over her shoulders, one of Jaime's robes probably, and she nodded her thanks. "What do you think they're doing out there, Loras?"

He scoffed. "I don't care what they're doing out there, but you've just recovered from your illness. Come inside." When she shook her head and kept staring, he sighed and turned. "I'll fetch you another cloak. One with a hood perhaps."

"The black, please," she called over her shoulder. The rain began to pour harder then and she could hear the drumming as it pounded against the stone walls and the hard glass of the balcony doors. Loras hurried outside and took the robe, handing her a heavy black bear pelt cloak lined in grey fox fur, before he muttered something about the horrid rain and the monstrosity his hair would become if he remained in it much longer.

Lyla was about to open her mouth to tell him to shut up about it and go inside then, but as she tied to cloak around her shoulders and pulled up the hood, she caught sight of Jory Cassel, running with a flying passion. "My lord," he screamed, and before she could blink the street flooded with soldiers and rainwater, draining like rivers down the streets.

"Loras," she breathed, reaching out for him and grabbing his hand. Tight.

They were clad in ringmail over leather, wearing platinum gauntlets and greaves, steel helms with golden lions on the crests. Rain clogged cloaks were clinging to their backs like a second skin; at least ten men were in the line that formed before Lord Stark. They blocked the street, carrying longswords and iron-tipped spears.

"Behind!" Came a call from one of her father's men, Wyl, and she looked to where more soldiers had formed in the back of them. No, she thought hastily, no this cannot be. Where is Jaime? Where is the King? Jory ripped his sword from its holster. "Make way or die!"

Then she saw the leader of them and her eyes grew wide and darkened. "The wolves are howling," he called over the beating rain. "Such a small pack, though." Beads of water dripped from his golden hair and she glared with fire in her heart and her nails dug into Loras' skin, making him cringe beside her.

Littlefinger rode closer to the line, step by step, on his bright white steed. "What is the meaning of this? This is the Hand of the King."

"He was the Hand of the King." Mud began sliding down the rivers of downpour and muffled the click of the blood bay's hooves. The men parted for the leader and he rode through the line, stopping before her father and the Master of Coin. "Now, if truth be told, I'm not sure what he is."

"Lannister, this is madness," Littlefinger gruffed. "Let us pass. We are expected back at the castle. What do you think you're doing?"

Her father sat taller on his horse then, staring at the man with calm grey eyes. The eyes that she hoped would reflect on the babe she now carried. "He knows what he's doing."

Lancel Lannister grinned like the seven devils themselves. "Quite true. I'm looking for my cousin, you remember my cousin, don't you, Lord Stark? Fair-haired, mismatched eyes, sharp of tongue. A short man."

"I remember him well," her father replied. His shoulders tensed and Lyla bit her lip, staring with her hands falling to her stomach.

"It would seem he has met some trouble on the road. My lord uncle is quite vexed; sent me to inquire of this folly personally. You would not perchance have any notion of who might have wished my cousin ill, would you?"

Eddard's jaw clenched and unclenched, flexing, flickering. What was going on and who would want to take Tyrion? He was so kind to her. "Your cousin has been taken at my command, to answer for his crimes," her father said at last. Crimes? She looked to Loras, who seemed intent on staring at the men. Her eyes followed suit.

Littlefinger's lips grew into a thin flat line and he groaned in dismay. "My lords-"

Lancel fiercely yanked his sword from its scabbard, all too excited and all too awkward. He was slow and ungainly, and she didn't even both to head the words that began to fall from his mouth as she ripped the bear pelt cloak from her body and grabbed Jaime's practice sword from the top of the table, thanking the gods that he'd left it there the night before as she sprinted from the room, leaving Loras chasing after her.

"No!" Lyla screamed as she reached the hillside where her father lay in his own blood, Petyr Baelish nowhere in sight. There were other men laying around, Wyl, Tomard, but Jory wasn't there like he had been just moments ago. "Loras, go fetch the maester!" She cried, running and kneeling beside her father. He looked so pale, muttering unintelligible things. She grabbed his hand and choked back a sob, the stench making her want to roil.

"Which maester?" Loras asked from the castle entrance, shielded from the downpour that drenched Lyla and her father.

"I don't give one bloody fuck which maester, Loras, just get one!" Had the rain not been drumming against the road, Lyla was certain the whole Red Keep would echo her thundering command. Quickly, her friend ran from her presence and back into the castle, up the stairs to find whoever he could. But her attention wasn't on the Knight of Flowers any longer, it was on her father.

"Oh, father," she whispered, taking his hand and bringing it to her cheek. Her free hand went to his forehead, where she brushed back his slick water-blackened hair and kissed his temple, not able to hold back from crying. "That venomous snake," she hissed through her tears, "That treacherous, evil, dirty mistake of a rat. I'm so sorry, father, I should have come down. I should have been here, I should have..." Sobs consumed her then and she rested over his body, feeling his shallow, blunt breathing. "I love you, father. So much..." She looked over to his leg, where the blood had flowed from and surrounded him, and crawled to it.

The rain was lightening up, and she took in a sharp breath as she tore open his pant leg. Having to stifle a gasp, Lyla held her breath and desperately tried to keep her newly found composure as she set eyes on the bone that pushed through his leg. Thinking on her toes, her shaking hands went to the hem of her lavish red and gold gown, one that Cersei had ordered for her, and she tore a thick strip from it. Her fingers worked to tie it around his knee, ignoring the blood that stained her hands, so that the river of crimson would stop flowing.

She heard him mumble something and she felt the tears jerk at her again. "Lya," he ground out. Quickly she went to him and held his face in her hands, giving him the best smile she could muster.

"I'm here father, I'm here," she murmured to him, and he looked up at her with his watery grey eyes for only a moment before shutting them again.

"Lyanna," he whispered, touching one of her hands with his, falling back into his delirium.

"No, father, it's me, Lyla," she told him, brushing her thumbs across his cheek.

There were the sounds of heavy footsteps and the clamor of armor, but Lyla didn't care. "Get Lord Stark out of the rain!" Commanded a man, old by the way his voice quivered and shook. Men ran to obey, and Lyla had to bite her tongue; it was all she could do to not scream and claw at them to not touch her father.

"If you hurt him, you would do well to remember that I've a direwolf that can tear you all to shreds in an instant," she warned the men who began to lift Ned onto a sheet to carry inside. As he was laid on the sheet of cream, she fell to tears again, seeing how it so quickly pooled with blood. "Be bloody careful."

A gasp sounded through the murmur of the rain, and she looked up to see Jaime standing there, looking confused and worried. He rushed to her side and tore his cloak off, pulling it over her shoulders. "Lyla, what in the seven hells is going on? You look like you've been soaked through the bone... Gods be damned, girl!"

He hurried her into the castle and she stopped halfway, sobbing onto his chest as he pulled her up and into his arms, carrying her the rest of the way. When he began walking towards their room, she let out a cry and reached for where they carried off her father. "Let me go!" She hissed, pushing against him. "Father! Father! Damn it, Jaime, release me!"

She wiggled free of his grasp and slumped to the floor, careful of her stomach as she fell to her hands and knees for only a moment before she stood and sprinted down the hall that her father was carried to. "Lyla, get back here!" She heard her husband roar, but she didn't care. All she cared about was her father as she chased after the men who held the blood-sodden sheet.

She slipped on her boots so she ripped them off in a haste, teetering after the men barefoot and soaked, dark chunks of hair flopping behind her. She heard as Jaime grunted with each step he took, as though he tried to propel faster with every bit of energy he had, and eventually his arms reached her, wrapping around her waist and swinging her behind him.

"No!" She screamed, kicking and clawing at his arms, but he was unrelenting and held her tighter. "There is nothing you can do for your father, Lyla. You'll just be more upset the longer you look at him like that." He slid to the ground against the wall and pulled her onto his lap, though she continued to punch his chest.

"Did you know this would happen? Did you know your cousin would attack him?" She asked, full of hurt and pain and the yearning for answers. He shook his head and she narrowed her watery eyes, still dripping silver tears. "Don't you dare lie to me, Jaime Lannister."

"I didn't know, darling. I swear to you." He held her closer and cradled her head to his chest as she fought the sobs that were buried deep in her heart. "Don't be afraid to cry, Lyla, it'll be okay. Your father will be okay."

She clung to him, fists full of his evergreen doublet and body as close to his as it could be. She felt weak and vulnerable and it was only after her sobs had come and gone- full bodied and depressing- that she heard him speak again. "Let me take you away, sweet girl. Let me take you from here."

Slowly she tilted her head up to meet his eyes, not even caring of what a mess she must have looked. "Are you daft? Jaime, my father is sick in his bed with a bone breaking through his leg. My sisters have no one to comfort them. I cannot go. We cannot go."

"Your father is being tended to by the Grand Maester Pycelle himself and your sisters have Loras, their septa, and all of your lady friends. Lyla, this isn't a safe place for you, and I swore to protect you. You're alone half the day while I'm out being a damned lord's son and King's Landing is full of the eyes and ears of the spider and the mockingjay."

"Jaime, Varys and Littlefinger have their claws into every crevice of the Seven Kingdoms and Essos beyond. You think I'll be safe just because I'm a few hundred leagues away?" She stared at him with her mouth ajar in shock. He was a beautiful fool if he thought she would leave her family just after an attack on it. "You can go. I'm staying."

He scoffed darkly. "You think I'd leave my wife here?" He wrapped his arms fully around her and buried his face in the crook of her neck. "I don't know what to do to keep you safe. Had you gone down there only moments earlier, Lancel would have killed you. And then I would have killed him."

"I'm safe with you," she murmured into his golden mane, running her fingers through it. "I'm safe with Loras, with my father..." She pressed her lips to his waves and pulled away to look him in the eyes. "Jaime, there's someone else who needs protection..." She bit her lip and closed her eyes, her hands falling from his frame to her stomach.

He looked confused and his hand slid up to her cheek. It took a few minutes before he looked down, where her bloody hands lay over her belly, and when his eyes made the contact he just stared.

In his eyes opened a book, and Lyla could read every word. He paled to white and one of his hands trailed to her stomach, resting over it. Terrified, worried, nervous, anxious, scared, fearful, sorrowful, happy, excited, and then terrified once more. "You're... with child?"

She nodded and pressed their foreheads close. "I spoke with Maester Frenken early this morning... He said I was about a month along, maybe a little less."

"We've been trying for less than a week, Lyla," Jaime murmured with furrowed brows, thumb caressing her belly. "It's not... possible."

"He said from the very first time... Jaime, I haven't bled since the King's Road." Lyla looked him in the eyes and felt a sad smile pull on her lips. "We're going to have a baby." A baby that might never see his grandfather, or the home of his mother...

He groaned and pulled her in for a tight hug, and she felt the slick wetness of his tears on her neck, leaving her to wonder if they were happy or sad. I thought he wanted this, she thought gloomily, but then she felt his warm, tender smile being pressed to her collarbone. "I love you, Lyla Stark or Lannister or whatever in the seven kingdoms you want your name to be. I bloody love you." His whispers vibrated against her skin and sent delicious shivers down her spine.

Her eyes began to rain tears again and she kissed him as he lifted her up from the ground and began carrying her towards their chambers. "I love you too, Jaime," she cried against his lips, smiling like a bloody fool.

It was in that moment that she knew; Lyla Stark was the second born of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, the Daughter of Winter, a lady by all rights who was raised in the North, but she felt more at home in the arms of Jaime Lannister than she ever did in Winterfell.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Jaime woke up with his wife tangled in his arms, her deep brown curls splayed around her and the sound of her soft snores filling the room. It had to be some time near mid-morning, because as he turned his head towards the window, the sun was still blooming into the pale lavender sky.

He looked back down at his wife and sighed sadly, running his fingertips up and down the dip of her waist, where the robe she pulled on after her hot bath had bunched up. The moment he found that damned Lancel Lannister, Jaime would kill him.

He'd gotten the full story from his little wolf bride the night before; she'd just gotten word of her pregnancy from the maester when she went to the balcony and witnessed as her father and his men were surrounded by Lannister forces. By the time she got there, it was too late. Her father was injured and two of his men were dead, another missing, along with his cousin and the soldiers that worked with him.

Grinding his teeth, Jaime held his wife closer, curling his arms around her stomach.

He hadn't been more shocked or stunned in his life, than the moment that Lyla told him she was with child. She looked so scared, desperate for his approval; and she'd gotten it. As the words came out of her mouth, that there was another that needed protected, time had stopped and he took a second to recount on his relationships in the past- particularly of that with Cersei.

Jaime had been with her since he was younger than Lyla, and she had given him three children; three children that had never truly been his. She hadn't even told him herself when she had gotten with child, he found out by the royal announcement like all the rest, always wondering if it was truly his or not.

He hated seeing another man raise his children, and never once would he get a say in it, nor in their lives. He remembered when Myrcella had taken to an illness as a child and he wasn't allowed to see her, even as her uncle.

He didn't have to worry about not knowing if the babe was his with Lyla. He didn't have to worry about being shut out of his child's life. It would be his and hers. Theirs. But then the overwhelming sense of the fact that he would have to actually step up and be a father swept through him and he could remember the feeling of his stomach as it twisted and churned.

Jaime had never been a father, nor a father figure at that, and he and Lyla were so newly wed. It was scary, terrifying, and he had wanted to run away. And then his eyes met Lyla's. Their reassuring blue like that that of the Sunset Sea, flecks of silver shimmering with concern and deafening emotion. It was then that he felt her fear, too. How she trembled in his arms, lower lip quivering in worry.

This woman was his wife, and in her swelled the fruit of their union, and as he felt a shivering sweep of realization, he finally understood his feelings for his wife. She had captivated him so thoroughly that he'd been left with no other revelation that he indeed loved the sweet Lyla Stark. Lannister now, he thought with a grin.

Lyla stirred and he moved to sit at the edge of the bed as watched her lids flutter open and she turned to look at him. Her eyes were still red from crying last night, and she moved slowly, as though she were suffering from a headache, but she seemed otherwise radiant. Looking up at Jaime, she smiled and raised a hand to his face, cupping his cheek. "Good morning, husband," she said, as had become custom for every morning, and he kissed the thumb that trailed to his lips.

"Good morning, wife," he murmured. "Are you feeling well? I could send for a bath..."

She shook her head, fuzzy brown curls swaying around her, some falling across her brow until he brushed them away. "No, I'm fine," she insisted, yawning slightly as she propped her elbow on her raised knee, filling her hand with her hair as she leaned on her palm. "It's so bright... Surely it's near noon?"

"Not quite. Midmorning, I believe." Jaime leaned in and kissed her softly, pulling away after just a moment. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? I can have Carinya come in."

"Jaime, truly, I'm alright." Lyla pecked his cheek and swung her legs from the bed, rising slowly. "I'm going to visit my father today," she said as she pulled her robe closer to her body- though really it was Jaime's robe, crimson with a dashing lion of Lannister blazon of gold on the back, which she'd taken to using over her own silk robe of silver lined in pearlescent white.

"You should eat before you go." He looked up at her from his seat on the bed and couldn't help but feel his heart melt a fraction. She was so beautiful, with brown curls as wild as her heritage but creamy skin and inviting blue eyes that dragged one in like a moth to a flame. She looked sad, though, when he gazed at those oceanic eyes, and he sighed, remembering the events of the night before with vivid detail.

Foolish Lancel, trying to achieve far greater than his position. Tomorrow I'll take up a search party and we'll find the bastard. Even as close as he was to Tyrion, with his marriage to Lyla Jaime would never jump to such a conclusion as to attack her father, Hand of the King.

Eddard Stark had been paler than the summer snow, muttering about his fallen sister Lyanna while holding his daughter's hand. The bone in his leg had been peeking into the sky, creamy and white, and the blood around him and on Lyla had been an overwhelming amount. It only made it worse to try and take Lyla back to their chamber.

She'd tried to run after her father, clawed her way from his arms and sprinted, ripping her boots off even, but it had been for naught when he caught her. In his arms, in the shadows of the hall, Lyla had cried so freely. She loved her father more than anyone in the world, he presumed, and his own damned family had betrayed her.

She smiled tiredly at him from where she stood only feet away, arms wrapped around her stomach absentmindedly. "I've no hunger," she said softly, shaking her head.

"If not for you, than for the babe?" He raised a brow and pulled her closer, resting a hand over her belly. It still seemed so strange, but he supposed he had time to come to terms with it. They both did.

Lyla exhaled slowly, resting her head on his shoulder as she sat beside him. "Alright," she said, "for the babe."

Jaime called for Carinya and the maid quickly rushed for something for them to eat while Lyla washed her face and Jaime helped her dress. She seemed so quiet and defeated this morning, so tired, and he couldn't blame her. He'd been as such after his mother had died- only Eddard wasn't to die. Or so I hope, Jaime thought sadly. He didn't know if his little wife could handle her father's death.

After Lyla had been dressed in a gown of brilliant crimson, rimmed gold with fresh water pearls buttoning down the bodice, Jaime had also dressed. He wore a thin cream doublet and ruby breeches, black of boots with a cloth of gold cape. A knock on the door interrupted Jaime clasping his wife's locket around her neck, and he called for whoever it was to come in.

He finished clasping the necklace and turned to see Carinya kicking the door open with her foot. He went to help her, taking one of the trays from her and shutting the door before taking another tray from her and setting them on the table by the balcony doors. "Come, sit," he offered to Lyla, who nodded, rising and meeting him, pressing her lips to his scruffy gold cheek, where he was beginning to grow a beard, before sitting.

There were meats and biscuits and fruits all over, with honeys and wine beside pitchers of water. Lyla stared at the feast, eying the peppered beef for particularly long before she convulsed forward, hand on her mouth, and made her way to the clean chamber pot, where Carinya held her unbrushed curls back as she vomited.

Jaime went to her side and rubbed her back, worried. "Are you alright?" He looked to Carinya then. "My brother implored to me of your... past. Is this usual for women who are with child?" Cersei had been with fever while carrying Joffrey and Myrcella, but he'd never seen her do this.

The handmaid brightened considerably. "With child, my lord? Is she truly?" Jaime just nodded, and she grinned, eyes full of excitement. "Well, the girls back at the..." she eyed Lyla quickly before continuing, seeming to not want to express her past life in detail with her Lady. "The girls back at the... village... were sick most mornings, if they'd been carrying."

He nodded, and when Lyla finished, she sat back and insisted she was fine, refusing help but accepting the feel of Carinya running a brush through her hair. Jaime knew that Catelyn Stark must have done so with her daughter plenty before she'd left Winterfell, and he knew that Lyla wished her mother were there- what wife wouldn't want their mother with them through their pregnancy? Especially after her father had just been attacked. He felt bad that they'd not had a close relationship, Catelyn and Lyla, for he could see she needed a mother still, at her fifteen- sixteen on the morrow- years.

The thought of the attack made Jaime bristle, and he watched as his wife sat beside the chamber pot with her maid brushing her hair, eyes closed as though she were lost in a daydream. He would do anything to protect her, the woman he loved and who carried their child, because she was his family now. Her family was his, too.

No matter what Lyla thought herself, the capitol wasn't safe- certainly not safer than Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister had assured that much while Joanna was still alive and Jaime and Cersei were only children, Tyrion just a seed in the womb.

"Jaime?" He looked up to see Lyla staring at him with a raised brow and worry in her eyes.

He patted her hand and sighed. "I was thinking..."

"Oh?"

"I think we should go to Casterly Rock."

Carinya excused herself, taking away the chamber pot, and Lyla crossed her arms. "I thought we went over this last night... It won't be any different in Casterly Rock than it is here."

"It will be." Jaime took her hands in his and intertwined their fingers. "Here, in King's Landing, there are soldiers from every Lord living here, each with different intentions. In Casterly Rock, you and I will be their Lord and Lady. The soldiers will all be ours, and their intentions will be to protect us. The westerners love Lannisters, of that my father made sure."

"My family-"

"Can come with us." He held one of her hands up to his cheek, where her fingers reached for his golden waves, toying with them. "Your sisters, Sansa and Arya, they can come with us. I'll pay that Bravosi of Arya's to come, and I'll make sure that Sansa brings her friend and her septa. Your father can be tended to in the infirmary, and once he's better, we can send him and your sisters to Winterfell with enough provisions to ensure their comfort and safety. Lyla, I won't let us stay here. Whether you like it or not, you're carrying our child and I'll not have you living in risk of attack."

She just stared at him for a while, blue eyes twinkling in anger at first, and then in understanding as he brought up their child. "I haven't told my sisters yet. Or my father. Nobody but us, the maester, and Carinya knows," she said absentmindedly, pulling one of her hands from his and brushing it over her belly. He reached out and ran his fingers over it gently, too, and closed his eyes as she scooted close to him and wrapped her arms around him.

He pulled her onto his lap and kissed her forehead and she sighed and leaned into him. "I want to leave as soon as possible, and until we do, I'll have you closely guarded. I'll have Addam collect the four best men in my ranks to protect you. The four closest behind are to go to your sisters, two each along with two north men each."

"Four guards? That'll just draw in attention, Jaime, not keep it away."

"I'm not worried about drawing attention, I'm worried about killing any enemies. Your family is now under my protection." Despite the love he had for his little brother, Jaime couldn't let that cloud his devotion and loyalty to his wife, first and foremost. She was his immediate concern. She and their babe; as well as those closest to her. Her family.

"I think we should bring the children, too," she said quietly against his chest, her breath seeping through his clothes and tickling his skin. "Myrcella and Tommen, that is..." Lyla pulled away slightly to look him in the eyes. "They're never attended to here. Cersei would rather parade the prince around and Robert would rather drink and whore his way to an early grave. They need us, Jaime. We're their family too."

He nodded, almost grudgingly. He was more their family than he cared to admit to her. Yet, he still agreed. "We are indeed their family. I'll speak to Robert about it."

The sound of knuckles rasping at the door startled them, and Jaime lifted her up in his arms, carrying her to the bed and sitting her down, bringing her a glass of water to wash out the foul taste of vomit from her mouth before he answered the knocking. It was a tall boy, thin and lanky with orange hair and brown eyes, a slew of think freckles splashed over his cheeks. "My lord, Jaime of House Lannister," he said in a shaky voice, holding out a small rolled piece of paper. "Her Grace, Queen Cersei, seeks an audience."

The boy was certainly formal, which partly made up for the awkward composure he held, and Jaime took the paper from him, unrolling it.

Come see me in the Throne Room, it said, and nothing else. They'd not talked since he reprimanded her for questioning Lyla's maidenhood. Looking back to the boy, he shooed him away, saying he'd find his own way to the Throne Room.

"My sister wants to see me," Jaime told his wife as he leaned on the door frame.

Lyla sat the water goblet down and stood, holding a hand on her stomach. "What business does she have?" She asked, curious. "Is there news from the infirmary? Has my father woken?"

"She only said to go to the Throne Room..." Jaime pressed his lips to Lyla's and brushed his fingers through her hair. "Go see to your father, I'll meet you there soon." Knowing Cersei, this could only be two things; Ridiculous and complete folly, or gravely serious. Jaime could only hope for the latter.

Cersei stood with her back towards the grand double doors.

Her golden hair fell in waves down to her lower back, and she was donned in a gown of deep burgundy, rimmed with ivory and patterned with dark ruby filigree. She wore a crown with rubies circling the base, wrought of pure gold in the shape of overlapping antlers, small and round and short.

She did not turn when the doors opened, she did not turn when Jaime called her name. Instead, she spoke.

"Have you ever thought about if it had been Rhaegar Targaryen who had won the fight on the Trident?" she asked, continuing without waiting for his answer. "I often find myself wondering. What if Robert's hammer hadn't cracked down on his polished black armor and struck him down? What if Rhaegar had been victorious? Elia Martell would have been dead and Lyanna Stark as well, and who would that leave? Cersei Lannister, over looked by Aerys Targaryen and nearly promised to Oberyn Martell."

She sighed, but still focused on the Throne, stepping closer to it and gracing her fingertips in the cool iron of the blades. "I would have princes and princess's with long silver hair and big violet eyes and be a queen of a different man. A man I might have loved." She paused, and finally she turned. She looked shatteringly indifferent.

"They say you sat on the Iron Throne after you slayed Aerys Targaryen," she said, voice monotone and cold. "That you could have been King, had Eddard Stark not made you get off of it. I also wonder, at times, how different life would be if you had been King. A golden king with a golden crown and golden children around you. Tell me, brother, would that brown haired, watery eyed, dirty little northerner be your queen? Bear your half-bred children?"

Jaime tensed and clenched his fist tight, eyes narrowing as his sister stared coldly at him. "Lyla is a strong northwoman and a good lady, and our children will not be halfbreeds," he defended.

She tilted her head to the side and wore a smirk that aged her considerably. "Sweet, silly Jaime... I heard a rumor. A whisper of sorts. Your northern bitch is with pup. Or should I say cub?"

"She is with child. We are not our sigils, Cersei." Jaime crossed his arms and leaned against a pillar, averting his gaze to the brilliant windows above, remembering what his wife had told him just moments before. I haven't told my sisters yet. Or my father. Nobody but us, the maester, and Carinya knows... "Who told you?"

Cersei's grin widened maliciously. "That maester your wife is so fond of... Whose House does he serve?"

"House Stokeworth," he replied, almost automatically.

"And what House is their Overlord?"

Jaime's brows knit together. "House Baratheon."

"House Baratheon of the Crownlands, yes. And who am I by my marriage to Robert?"

"What does all of this have to do with how you know my wife is pregnant?" Jaime looked back to his twin and raised a brow. What game was she playing?

"Who am I by my marriage to Robert?" she asked again, calm.

"Cersei Baratheon," he spat, eyes burning like venom from a snake.

Her grin became unbelievably cattish and he forced himself not to growl. "Yes, Cersei Baratheon, and as a Baratheon, and as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I claimed the little maester and questioned him a bit... He was very open after the fourth finger was cut."

Jaime couldn't suppress his anger and lurched, though Cersei did not flinch. "You're a sick woman. Just because you are a queen does not mean you can go around mutilating people for gain! Especially not a maester!"

She sneered then, retreated from him by a few steps. "Sick woman? I am a Lannister-"

"-Baratheon," Jaime reminded her with an icy composure. Her emerald eyes shimmered in frustration and she snapped around, turning from him. "What is the reason for bringing me here?" he asked, holding a glacial stare. "Cersei, what is the importance of Lyla's pregnancy to you?"

"To me? Jaime, it's important to us." Cersei eyed him over her shoulder and bared her teeth in anger. "Do you not remember that we entered this world together? That we will leave it together as well? We are bonded at the soul, Jaime."

While her voice was softening, she stood stiffer by the second, and Jaime missed his sweet sister. Not this madwoman who paraded around with a constant disdain and held next to no love in her heart anymore. No, he missed when he and Cersei were back in Casterly Rock, laying before the fire as a thunderstorm raged on, playing with Tyrion between them and trading treats of cakes and pies. They hadbeen close- but no longer, it seemed to him.

"There is no us anymore," he told her, and while it hurt in his heart, where he still remembered the sister whose hair he brushed when she was sad and whose hand she held when she was frightened, he knew it felt right to say the words. "Cersei, I have a wife and she is carrying my child. I cannot go around playing a fool and doing things as we were."

"The child is a problem easily fixed. Moon tea is a-"

"Cersei, I swear to the Seven, if you ever suggest that I or anyone else kill my child..." He forced himself to stop, feeling as heat radiated to his cheeks. He couldn't let himself lose control, for she was, after all, the Queen of Westeros. "I will speak of this no more," he said instead, turning to leave.

She caught his arm as he made to walk away, though, and looked up at him with his own glimmering green eyes. "You don't love me," she said. "You stand up for that northern slut, and leave me behind to rot. We have been together since birth, sweet Jaime." Her eyes grew misty and she reached a hand up to her face. Just as Lyla had done that morning, and many a time before.

Jaime pulled away and shook his head. "You have a husband, I have a wife. We are brother and sister, Cersei, nothing more. Not any longer. I love my wife, and she is carrying my babe in her belly. I'll not go along with this folly."

The water in her eyes seemed to evaporate to nothing and she hissed, shoving him back and slapping him full force, his cheek already throbbing. "I had three of your children, and you leave me for one with that silly-headed fool? You'll have your fun with her and once you realize that she's just a hussy with no mind of her own, you'll come back to me. You've always come back to me, and you always will. You don't know love, Jaime Lannister, you know lust. Want. And once you're done wanting her, you'll return."

He just stared at her, allowing her to convince herself that he still needed her, when the truth was that he'd stopped needing her for quite a while now- at least, he'd stopped needing her in that way. He still needed her to be his sister and support him, but for as long as they'd kept up their madness, he wasn't surprised that she couldn't give him that.

As he had hoped for, Cersei's calling had been folly, ridiculous folly at that, and as he made his way to the Tower of the Hand, he relished in the thought that he and Lyla would be leaving the capitol andCersei behind. He needed a fresh start, and one with Lyla and their child would only be the sweetest kind.

Jaime entered quietly, leaning on the doorway as he watched his wife tend to his father.

Lyla was leaned over him, brown curls braided down one side of her as to not disturb her as she worked over man that lay on the bed before her. She was running a damp cloth over his brow, pressing little kisses to his cheeks and sniffling darkly. "I'm so sorry," she whispered to him, obviously unaware of her husband's presence. "If I had known... Oh father..."

She held his hand and cradled it close to her belly, smiling so sadly. "I want to be the one to tell you first, even if you don't remember it, but... I'm having a child, father. You'll be a grandfather and I'll take him to see you in Winterfell, when you're old and white, like the snow." Her voice was failing as tears trickled down her cheeks, and Jaime felt a pang of guilt. His shit of a cousin had done this, to his wife and to her family, to him.

"He'll have your dark hair and grey eyes, and I know you'll love him." She moved his hand from her stomach to her cheek, where she held it there and pressed a quick kiss to his thumb. It was then that Jaime came behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her softly, as gently as if he'd been holding glass.

She leaned into him, sighing as the hot tears fell and splashed onto his hands below. "I fear the worst," she whispered. "I know it's silly and I'm just paranoid, but I can't help but feel... With Bran the way he is and my father like this... Robb won't return my letters. Or Theon, or my mother. I feel like there is something being kept from me, so tell me."

He sighed and raked his fingers through his cool blonde waves. "I'm not sure I should. You may want to hear it from your father or..."

"... Or you. Just tell me, Jaime." She seemed desperate to understand why the Starks were being victimized like so, but he couldn't tell her the whole truth. Not really.

Nodding, he sat down completely and rested his head on her lap, feeling as she ran her fingers in his hair reassuringly. "When your brother... fell... some speculated he knew a secret. A man attacked your brother Bran one night to silence him. His blade cut your mother's hands as she defended her son, but it was the boy's direwolf who saved him."

"Summer," she gasped, gripping at Jaime's hand tight. She looked terrified. "Is my mother alright? Robb? Rickon? Oh gods, Rickon..."

"He's fine, sweetling, they're all fine." Jaime kissed the top off her hands softly before continuing. "They said the knife was my brother Tyrion's, but I know otherwise." I hope otherwise.

Lyla raised a brow, shaking her head. "Tyrion wouldn't hurt my family. Why try and win my good graces if he wasn't happy about a Stark and Lannister union?"

"I know that, sweet girl. I do. But your family doesn't have knowledge of near any events on the King's Road, but for when the direwolves attacked the prince I'm sure. Unless you or your father had failed to tell them?" She pursed her lips and nodded, admitting that she'd told of that and that alone, and he nodded too. He'd figured as much. "Your mother went out to find my brother, who was traveling from the Wall back home, and..."

"She captured him. That much I knew from when your cousin was speaking to my father and Baelish... I can't help but wonder, why Lancel? Tywin must know that he's an insolent fool- why send a boy out to do such a thing?"

Jaime shrugged. "He knew that I wouldn't dare, and Lancel would do anything for Tywin. Nearly anyone would do anything for my father... Lancel has always been easy to manipulate... Given the right motivation and sufficient reason, he'd do whatever he was asked. Being the simplest Lannister born of them all, he probably did this because he thinks he'll get some brilliant title for it. Knighthood or something of the sort..."

Lyla rolled her eyes. "Doing something so vile and silly because of knighthood? The boy is a slip of a thing. I don't understand why he wasn't just killed."

"From what you and Loras told me, there were three or four Lannister guards for every Stark. He most likely stayed behind while the guards took charge."

"And you still haven't found Jory Cassel?"

Jaime shook his head. "No, we haven't. I'm gathering a party to search for him tomorrow, though. Would you like to go?" Her pregnancy was early enough to not be affected by riding, and he knew she might need some time out of the castle, but she shook her head.

"I need to be with my father and the girls," she said, "but take Rose with you. She needs to be let out. I'll keep Nymeria and Lady with the girls and I... I'll have to tell them about Casterly Rock tomorrow. They'll need to pack. I'll have Septa Mordane pack my father's things."

Someone cleared their throat behind them, and both turned to see Robert Baratheon standing in the doorway. "And why in the Seven Hells would your Septa need to pack my Hand's things?" He asked, black brows pointed together, blue eyes a rage.

"My father is your Hand no longer," Lyla said, holding her chin higher. She was kind to Robert, and likewise, he was as well- near too kind. She reminded him of Lyanna Stark, and it was a painful thing to watch as he looked for his lost love in the young Lannister wife. "You gave up that right when you berated him for standing up for Daenerys Targaryen."

Robert's search for Lyanna ceased then. He'd found her. Lyla's cold steel interior was said to be an exact match to that of Lyanna, and the look on the King's face told all. "She's dragon spawn. She's evil."

"She's just a girl, younger than I, who holds no threat to the throne with the sea between you. You're a bloody fool if you think the Dothraki will cross the Narrow Sea just because they've got an exiled princess as their Khaleesi. She'll stay with her Khal and she and her child will live on the Dothraki Sea for the rest of their days." Lyla stood, Jaime not far behind her as he held her at the shoulders protectively. She had her arms wrapped around her belly, eyes hot on Robert.

"You dare speak to your King that way, girl?" Robert growled, looking to Jaime. "Keep your wife in line, Lannister."

"In line? You dare tell my husband to keep me in line? You may be the King, but for how long with the blood of an innocent fourteen year old on your hands? She is not Rhaegar, Robert."

"Your Grace," he ground out through his anger. "You will address me as your King."

"Or should I say Kinslayer? Through your grandfather's marriage to Rhaelle Targaryen, Daenerys is the daughter of your father's cousin. Is that not how you justified your claim to the Iron Throne? You slayed the son of your father's cousin. Rhaegar. You allowed Elia Martell to die, and her children as well. The populous may not have liked Aerys, but they loved Prince Rhaegar, and Elia Martell was goodly to them, as was Queen Rhaella."

Robert glared madly at her, and Jaime pulled her back behind him. "Hush, that's enough," he whispered insistently, shaking his head.

"No." She looked over his shoulder to Robert once more. "Because of your absurd obsession with killing your dragon kin, my father is no longer Hand, and is traveling with Jaime and I to Casterly Rock. You don't deserve a friend as good as he, nor a Hand at that." Her words were venom, Jaime knew, and when he turned to see the King, it looked like he'd been stabbed a thousand times.

Robert sat down and just stared at Ned Stark. "More like your Uncle Brandon than your father, girl," he commented after a while, sighing. "And Lyanna. Gods, you're like Lyanna. Saying things before you think of them... I know you're mad... But you're a northerner." Lyla moved to sit by him and looked up at him sympathetically, a though she'd not just been screaming at him. She couldn't stay mad at anyone for long, Jaime knew, and neither could Robert. "The Targaryen's took your aunt Lyanna, right from her very bed I hear, and there you are defending them? They slayed your Uncle Brandon and your grandfather."

"I know what has befallen on my family because of Aerys and Rhaegar, Your Grace, but those two men are not all the Targaryens. I do not forgive they two, but they are gone regardless, and I have no hatred for Daenerys or her brother Viserys. He may be a beggar king, but he is no mad king. Think about it." The steel was still in Lyla's eyes, but she looked calmer now.

Jaime watched the two interact. Robert leaned against his chair and Lyla quickly patted his hand before retracting herself from his space and rising, moving to embrace Jaime. "I'll be with the girls. Speak to him about the children, Jaime." She kissed him softly and smiled up at him, though he could still see traces of sorrow for her father.

He nodded and watched her go before looking to Robert. The king was already eying him. "When were you going to tell your king that you planned on taking Eddard Stark and all three of his daughters back to Casterly Rock with you?" he asked, arms folding.

"As soon as I could. I did have important matters to attend to today, but I guess I might push them aside and make room for you, Your Grace." Jaime couldn't help the dark sarcasm in his manor. While he hadn't particularly enjoyed Cersei as of late, Robert had made her more miserable than he'd seen anyone since Rhaella Targaryen. He'd made Jaime stand guard at his door while he defiled young girls rather than lie with his sister, the queen. She was still his sister, regardless of what else she wasn't.

"And I thought that girl was softening you, but I see I was wrong, Kingslayer. Tell me, why is it that you are taking the Starks from the capitol?"

"I am bound to protect my wife by the law of man and gods, and through our marriage her family is mine. I am only taking my family to the safety of the Rock until Lord Stark is well enough to go home to Winterfell," Jaime said levelly, working to hold his composure.

Robert barked a hoarse laugh and smacked his hand against his knee, and then he fell into utter seriousness. "Thinking you're going to take the Starks from King's Landing would make you a daft man. The Lannisters attacked Eddard, and you believe I'll let you prance him out of the capitol and towards the home of the lions? Those men at the Rock are loyal to your father, not you, boy. They'll kill the man and his daughters too. Even your wife."

"Here in the capitol, there are more than just my father who want Ned Stark dead. At Casterly Rock he will be treated as a guest, only heavily guarded at all times," he explained.

"You think he's not guarded here?" Robert inquired.

"I know he's not guarded here. There isn't a soldier outside that door, northern or otherwise, nor any in the room or at the windows. He's unprotected and vulnerable." Jaime pointed around to prove his point, then crossed his arms. "I'll have fifteen men at Stark's door, ten each outside his daughters' rooms. Lyla and I will have five posted outside our chamber. Maester Creylen is a good man. He'll have Eddard brand new in just weeks."

Robert eyed his lifelong friend again and then looked to Jaime. "You'll not be taking Lord Stark, Lannister," he said darkly, shaking his head.

"If I don't take Lord Stark, he'll be forced back into being your Hand, a position you and all the rest of the realm know that he never truly wanted. He is a good friend, Robert, but let him go. Let him go home. He'll die here otherwise. His wife needs him, his sons, all three of them. His two daughters will never thrive in a place so different than Winterfell. They weren't raised for it."

"Who do you suggest to be my Hand in his stead, if you're so keen on your intelligence, Kingslayer?"

Jaime forced himself to slip into a cool indifference, to not cringe at the name. Kingslayer, he was called, but with no point to it. Everyone in Westeros and Essos beyond knew what he did, he didn't need a title to prove it. "That's simple. Name Mace Tyrell your Hand. That way his thirst for power would be quenched, and yet you'd have the Tyrells in your pocket. They'd finally be in your debt, rather the other way around."

Robert seemed dumbfounded and even nodded at the truth in Jaime's words. But then he grew fierce. "No. Eddard Stark is my closest friend, and I'll not leave him at the mercy of you filthy lions."

"Even Lyla? She is the reason I'm even considering taking the Starks to Casterly Rock." It was a slight lie. While Lyla was a huge part of it, Jaime had grown attached to being a part- however small that part was- of a family like the Starks. They were so together. They cared for one another. Lions never cared for each other, or they never showed it at least. They were too proud for it. Jaime inwardly scoffed. He was sick of acting proud.

Robert looked down. He had an undeniable soft spot for the eldest Stark daughter, Jaime's own little wife, and he visibly calmed, some of his infamous Baratheon fury quenched. "The girl wants her father with her at Casterly Rock, is that it? Her sisters too?"

Jaime nodded. "That's it. She's his eldest, and a large part of his family. Who's to deny a girl the rights to have her father with her while he recovers, though she has to leave to a new keep? The best solution is to send the father with her. It is best he is with family that can understand more than an eleven year old and a nine year old. If you truly need the man as your Hand so terribly, we can discuss it with him once he has recovered."

"I don't like you. I'd sooner shove you in the smallest cell in King's Landing..." Robert glared at him with hard blue eyes, black bead melting with the hair on his head, and for a moment he looked like a black maned lion. "But your wife I like. I'll keep Eddard with me until he wakes up and he can decide then, and should he choose to spend his time with his daughter, then I'll accept Mace Tyrell as my Hand."

"I have one more request," Jaime said, raising his chin higher. "Lyla rather enjoys Myrcella and Tommen..."

"... Yes yes, they can go with you if you leave. They need a damned mother. Gods know theirs doesn't do enough for them." Jaime should have felt angry at Robert for slighting Cersei, but he couldn't feel anything but agreement. Myrcella and Tommen were best off with a woman who would attend to them. Who would love them and teach them well. Jaime felt his heart wretch as he wished he'd had someone to do so for him growing up.

But I have Lyla now, he thought as he promptly left the room, and she'll attend to me. She'll love me. Part of him wanted to believe it, but another part could feel dark tidings rolling in. There couldn't be calm forever; eventually a storm would break into the bay that was their life and wash everything away. Jaime could only hope Lyla wouldn't be one that was pulled out to the ominous black sea. She or their child.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

The sun was twirling into the sky blazon with dull oranges and deep maroons, lilac clouds parting for its way and the firmament melting from rich sapphires to a vivid cerulean. A slight breeze picked up and with it was a brush of warmth against her skin. She leaned into it, sighing as she curled further into the furs that had covered her since dawn, when she first woke and went to the balcony she'd now lain on for hours.

Jaime had been gone searching for Lancel Lannister and Jory Cassel for nearly a sennight now, and sleep was harder to come by without him. Normally if she had a bad dream or couldn't fall back asleep, he would stay up with her and talk to her or hold her until she slipped into dreaming once more, but now she was alone in their room, and his half of the bed had long since grown cold.

So, when she woke before the moon had gone down, she decided to go to the balcony and watch the world fade from night to day until Carinya would be awake and could help her get ready- and what a beautiful equilibrium she beheld. She'd witnessed the stars disappear from their twinkling finesse and the curled moon dance to the horizon as it ran from the burning sun, which brought heat to each particle that was consumed by its light.

There was a quiet creaking of her door and Lyla turned, expecting Carinya, but her eyes widened in surprise when Tommen Baratheon slipped into her chamber. He was all loose gold curls and tired green eyes, rubbing them with the back of his fists. "Aunt Lyla, I had a bad dream," he murmured, toddling to her.

When he reached her, she opened her arms and wrapped them around him, pulling him onto her lap. He leaned into her and nuzzled close, curling under the furs that she tugged from around her to lay over them. "It must have been an awful one for you to trek all the way over here," she whispered to him, pressing her lips to his temple. "What happened in your dream, sweet boy?"

He looked up at her and frowned, and she saw so much of Jaime in him that it was queer. Before she had time to think on it, though, he laid his head on her chest and sighed. "Mother was crying, but when I tried to dry her tears she hit me... And Father was bleeding and Joffrey was wearing his crown." The boy's voice grew shaky and she held him closer, running her fingers through his hair.

"Shhh. Don't cry, sweet. Are you thirsty? Hungry?" Tommen nodded at both and she rose, hoisting him onto her shoulder. "Alright, let's go down to the kitchens and I'll have the cook fix you a big breakfast."

She pulled on a heavy robe and tied her hair into a quick braid before taking the little prince to the Great Hall, him laying in the crook of her neck and rubbing his back. A maid went to her but she put a finger to her lips, shaking her head. Tommen had fallen asleep to the bobbing motion of Lyla padding down the grand staircase, and she didn't want to wake him just yet.

"Ask the cook to make the Prince a meal, please," she whispered to the maid. "Some soft boiled egg and meat and bread, and make sure there are sweet things for him. He likes those small cakes with the berries- do you know what those are called?"

"The sweetcakes, my lady," said the maid.

"Yes, yes. Fetch some of those for the Prince and if you could bring me some milk, please." The young girl nodded and smiled before heading towards the kitchen and Lyla went to sit at a table with large cushioned chairs that had tall velvet backs and could hold both she and Tommen when she rested him beside her, wrapping the fur cover over him and brushing hair from his eyes.

While she waited she sipped on water and leaned back into the chair, wondering why the little Prince hadn't gone to his parents. Though, she could understand him not turning to Cersei after she'd hit him, even if it was only just a dream. But there was still Robert, or even Myrcella would have let him sleep with her in her room, she knew, but he'd chosen her- a chamber that lay almost all the way across the whole Keep.

A tray was placed before her, full of cheese breads and honey and a pitcher of milk, and Lyla thanked the maid with a warm smile before kissing the Prince's cheek and caressing his temple. "Wake, Tommen," she murmured, and he smiled bright when he saw her.

"Mother always sends me away when I've had dreams," he told her as he reached for a piece of plain brown bread and dipped it heavily in honey, licking his lips eagerly. "She never takes me or Cella down to the hall when we're upset. Only Joffy."

"Is that right? Well I'll take you down here any time you want to be taken down, how about that?" Lyla laughed when he dropped the bread on the table and hugged her neck, giggling.

"I wish you were my mother," Tommen said, leaning into her, and she could feel her eyes widen.

Cersei may not have been a good mother, but she was a fierce lioness and loved them as much as her heart allowed. "Your mother loves you very much, Tommen," Lyla chastised lightly. "It would break her heart to hear you say such things."

"It would, wouldn't it?" Lyla's head snapped up and her eyes of ice landed on those of grey-green. He took the next two trays from the maid and offered her leave, resting them on the table. "My, aren't you a busy little wolf? With child yourself but trying to steal more? Is the one inside of you not enough, sweet Lady Lannister?"

"You." She steeled, glaring up at the man she'd disliked from the start. "You were with my father when Lancel attacked. Why did you not help?"

"But I did. I went for the City Watch, who carried your lord father inside to the Maester's chamber."

"You are a coward for leaving him alone." She held her hands over Tommen's small ears as he nibbled on a slice of the sweetcake. "And you dare insist I am stealing children? Keeping them protected and well looked after is one thing but stealing?"

Littlefinger shrugged and then gave her an odd smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You look nothing like your mother. Even your eyes are greyer than hers were. No, you're a Stark child for true, with that snow skin and dark hair. You would have made a fine Tully, though, with a personality like that. All fury and quick temper with no true thought to it. Just look at your silly headed Uncle Edmure."

Lyla wanted to stand. To unsheathe a sword and slice his chest open where her Uncle Brandon had done before, to loose and arrow into his skull, but not with the Prince by her side. And perhaps that is why he waited so long to confront her. Instead, she settled for saying, "I'm through speaking with you." The Prince looked up at her with large green eyes and she smiled down at him, pressing a kiss to his forehead before releasing his face, his ears now free.

The short man before her held his hands up and stepped back. "I only mean to warn you of one thing, my lady. That you are in a dangerous city with dangerous people around you. Life is not a song, here in the game of thrones, and eventually your time will come." He sauntered away and Lyla narrowed her eyes at his figure as it enveloped into the shadows of the hall.

"What did he mean by that, Aunt Lyla?" Tommen asked, mouth full of a slice of charred black bacon.

"I don't know, little Prince, but pay it no mind. He's just a small man with far too many short comings," she replied, taking a bite of a cherry.

"Aunt Lyla... What are short comings?"

She laughed at that, and then the Prince followed, and she ruffling his bed-messed golden locks. "When you're older, perhaps you'll find out. Come along then, eat up. I'll take you to your room to dress after and you can spend the day with me, alright?" He nodded and quickly began stuffing his face, and Lyla grinned as he drooled honey all over his night trousers, eagerly gulping down milk so they could start their day together as soon as possible.

Once Tommen was donned in a top of rich grey velvet with ivory embroidery and bottoms to match, with black boots and a short dark cape, Lyla herself took to dressing. She wore a long silver-gold gown with long dagged sleeves and a sash of crimson to match her red-painted boots and had brushed and braided her hair down her back, where it reached the small of it.

"Ready?" She asked once he entered her chamber with a bright grin. He nodded and she smiled. "Good. I thought I could take you to the kennels first... I heard one of the barn cats gave birth to kittens not long ago."

"Really, did they?" He squealed and she laughed, bobbing her head. "Oh I love Kittens, Aunt Lyla, how did you know?"

She smirked and lifted him to her hip, tickling under his chin. "I'm your Aunt, I'm supposed to know these things," she murmured, nodding to the guards that Jaime had sent to keep watch on her. They'd just woken up it seemed, for when she'd taken the Prince down to the kitchens they had been off post, probably sleeping or donning their armor. But they were there now, clad in crimson metal with golden lions screaming on their breast plates, and she was glad for it. If anyone dared an attack on her today, they'd be attacking Tommen as well, and that wouldn't do.

They made their way to the kennels, Lyla and Tommen walking just before four guards, one of which was one of Jaime's closest friends, Addam Marbrand. He would give her reassuring smiles, and with his copper-ruby hair and easy laugh, she felt more at home. He was like a mixture of Robb and Theon and Jaime, all in one, and she knew they would be fast friends.

The kennel master nodded to them and she set Tommen down once they entered, pointing to a box in the back of the room. "Go see them, sweet one," she said, grinning when he ran off as fast as his pudgy legs could take him.

"You're sweet to the little Prince," Marbrand noted, and she smiled. "It's a good thing you are. Nobody else is."

She regarded him for a moment before she followed Tommen, where he already had a few kittens crawling on him. "Look, Aunt Lyla, look at me! They like me!" He giggled.

"Of course they do, Tommen, they love sweet boys," she said, picking one up and running her hand along its spine and down its tail. It was a fluffy white kitten with large brown eyes that spoke not a meow. It reminded her of Ghost, Jon's direwolf, and she suddenly found herself wondering how he was. He'd returned her letters, but only with short words whereas hers were pages long. The kitten finally began purring and she was pulled out of her thoughts quickly.

Tommen was holding a particular kitten very close, grinning widely at it. It was pale brown with white stockings crawling halfway up its leg. Its eyes were bright green, much like Tommen's, but with yellow rimming the pupil, and dark russet zags on its body and down the back of its legs, brindling them in a way. "This one will be King Paws," he declared. "And this one," he held up a similar looking kitten, only its eyes were blue with silver rimming the pupils and it had no white socks, "will be his Queen Purr."

"Will they be that?" Lyla laughed and kissed each of the little cats on the head before he released them to rub against his legs and meow expectantly. Looking up to the kennel master, he shrugged and nodded, giving the Prince permission to have the cats without words. She mouthed a thank you and looked to Addam Marbrand. "Would you mind bringing the Prince Tommen a nice basket for his new kittens, please?"

He smiled at the boy and nodded, muttering to the other guards to stay there while he went off to fetch the basket. Her attention was tugged back to Tommen when he squealed in delight as a kitten pounced on a string he'd pulled from the box and swung around the floor. She remembered one year, for her seventh name day Willas had sent her a kitten as well, but Sansa had been so taken with it that she'd let her younger sister keep it. It was a little yellow cat with brown eyes that the red haired girl had named Lemoncakes.

"When Ser Addam comes back, can we go show Mother and Father my kittens?" Tommen asked, and Lyla nodded.

"Of course we can, Tommen. I'm sure they'll love King Paws and Queen Purr." She ran her fingers through his hair and watched the white kitten that she was petting before run along and chase the tail of King Paws.

By the time that Addam came back, Tommen was laying on his belly and cuddling with kittens all around him, and a small orange kitten was resting on Lyla's leg. "My Prince," he said, setting the basket down before the little golden boy. He gasped and jumped up excitedly, grabbing it. It was all white wicker with plush violet velvets on the bottom and a tall handle to help carry the baby cats with that was wrapped with lilac silk.

Tommen immediately ran after King Paws and Queen Purr, placing them inside the basket. They mewed and stared up at them with their green and blue eyes and he giggled all anew, clapping his hands and grabbing the basket, running all around the room with it. The dogs in the pins along the walls barked and howled and Lyla began placing the kittens back in the box, kissing each one, before she rose and followed to where Tommen had run out of the Kennels.

"Come on, Aunt Lyla, let's go show Mother and Father! And Myrcella, too! Come on!" He ran ahead and she looked to her guards. "Where are the King and Queen?" She asked, raising a brow, and they all murmured amongst themselves before Addam spoke up.

"I believe that they'll be visiting your Lord father sometime today. He's just woken up, I'm told, my lady," he said.

Her eyes widened and she raised a brow. "Why did you not tell me of this immediately?" She asked. "He's my father. You didn't think to tell his daughter?" She clenched her fists and narrowed her eyes, running after Tommen and picking him up, holding him at her hip as he clutched his basket of kittens, and racing towards the Tower of the Hand, her guards chasing after them.

He was still laying down and looked awfully pained, long dark hair splayed around him and deep grey eyes catching the light in a way that made them look translucent. "Tell him I'm too weak to come to him. If he wishes to speak with me, I should be pleased to receive him here. I hope you wake him from a sound sleep. And summon..."

She frowned and hiked Tommen higher on her hip. He must have forgotten that Jory was missing. "... Summon none. I will tend to my father," she said to Vayon Poole.

Eddard looked to his daughter and sighed in what seemed relief. He motioned for her to come to him and she did, setting Tommen down and taking his hand, feeling tears tickle her cheeks. Tears of joy they were, for even though she'd visited him every day with the girls, he hadn't been awake in a week. He smiled to her and she pressed her lips to his knuckles, Tommen running up to him.

"Look, Lord Stark, Aunt Lyla gave me kittens!" He sat the two newborn cats onto his bed and grinned wildly. This is King Paws, you see? And this is Queen Purr. They're very good friends already." Lyla ruffled his hair and her father patted the kittens and thanked Tommen for showing them to him. "Aunt Lyla is spending the day with me," he said proudly. "We're going to show my Mother and Father the kittens."

"How good of you," said her father, nodding.

"I'll be right with you, Tommen. Why don't you go play with King Paws and Queen Purr with Ser Addam?" She looked up at the guard and he nodded to her, stepping forward and helping Tommen take the kittens towards the back of the room, where they began playing. She turned back to her father and smiled at him. "It's been six days," she told him. "and Lancel has fled. Jaime took Loras and Rose and a few others to go searching for him and Jory. I had a few extra guards put on your charge, from Jaime's men. Everyone is talking of how Mother took Tyrion..."

Ned pursed his lips and eyed her warily. "And the girls? How are they? How are you?"

"They have been with you every day. I bring them myself. Sansa prays quietly, but Arya... She has not said a word since they brought you back. She is a fierce little thing, Father. I've never seen her so angry. She has more wolf's blood than Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna ever did, I'm sure." Lyla leaned into his palm as he brought it up to her cheek. "I am well enough... Just lonely is all... Father, there is something I must tell you."

He raised a brow and sat up more. "Tell me," he insisted.

She smiled and grabbed the hand he held to her cheek, bringing it down to her belly, holding it there. "Jaime and I... are going to have a..."

"A little lion," he finished, staring at her with wide eyes. They were both scared and nervous, though she could see no true happiness in them. She forced herself not to frown or fret. No man wants their daughter to grow up so fast, married and expecting a child. With the Kingslayer, no less, though Lyla didn't see him that way. She was young, she knew, but for only being sixteen for a few days time now she also knew she acted much older. She expected she looked like a disappointed child right then, however.

Someone entered the room and they both looked up to see Vayon Poole. "His Grace is without, my lord, and the queen with him," he said. Her father pushed himself higher, wincing at his leg's pain, and sighed.

"Send them in, and leave. What we have to say should not go beyond these walls." He looked to Lyla, but she shook her head, implying strongly that she was naught to be sent away.

"Ser Addam, please go stand outside with the others... Tommen, come here, sweet." She moved to sit in a chair at the foot of his bed and Tommen plopped onto her lap, cuddling the King and Queen of kittens.

Robert had certainly spent time in dressing. He was donned in a black velvet doublet with the crowned stag of Baratheon worked upon it, right on the breast, sewn of golden silk and a golden mantle with a cloak of black and gold squares crested his shoulders. In his hand was a flagon of wine and his face was flushed with drink already. Beside him was Cersei, a jeweled tiara in her hair.

They looked from Ned to Lyla, Cersei growling with distaste when she saw Tommen on her lap, and the little boy lit up when he saw his parents. "Mother, Father, look at what Aunt Lyla got me!" He slipped from her lap and with him were the two kittens. He held one up in each hand and handed one to each of his parents. Robert took the kitten and smiled at his son, rubbing his back encouragingly, and Cersei held the other, petting it lightly but not even looking at Tommen.

"Your Grace," her father said, trying to sit up even further. "Your pardons. I cannot rise."

Robert waved his hand, shaking his head. "No matter," he muttered. "Some wine? From the Arbor. A good vintage."

"A small cup," said Ned. "My head is still heavy from the milk of the poppy."

"A man in your place should count himself fortunate that his head is still on his shoulders," Cersei declared, narrowing her eyes at him.

"Quiet woman," Robert snapped as he brought his friend a cup of wine. He looked to Lyla, wondering if she would want any, but she shook her head. Septa Mordane had told her of the defects children were born with when mother's drank wine while pregnant. "Does the leg still pain you?" He asked of Ned.

"Some," admitted Eddard. She knew he would not want to show pain in front of the queen, so he would never say that it hurt as much as she knew it did.

She shifted Tommen to one knee and took his hand, smiling. "Pycelle swears it will heal clean."

Robert nodded in agreement, then frowned. "I take it you know what Catelyn has done?"

"I do." Her father took a sip from the cup. "My lady wife is blameless, Your Grace. All she did she did at my command."

"I am not pleased, Ned." Robert pet the kitten on his knee, King Paws, until he purred, and Cersei released Queen Purr, who bounded to Tommen and sat on his lap.

"By what right do you dare lay hands on my blood?" Cersei hissed. "Who do you think you are?"

"The Hand of the King," Ned defended with ice behind his steel grey eyes. "Charged by your own lord husband to keep the king's peace and enforce the king's justice."

"You were the Hand," she began, "but now-"

Lyla barely had time to cup her hand's over Tommen's ears before Robert roared, "Silence! You asked him a question he answered it." Cersei subsided, and though she was emanating anger and ice, Robert turned back towards Ned. "Keep the king's peace, you say. Is this how you keep my peace, Ned? Seven men are dead..."

"Eight," Cersei corrected. "Tregar died this morning, of the blow Lord Stark gave him."

Tommen squirmed and her hands fell from his face when he got up and ran to his father. He plucked the kitten up and put them both in the basket, carrying it to Lyla. "I want to go show Cella the kittens... You can stay with your father if you want." He turned to Cersei and she sighed, as though it were the worst inconvenience for her son to want to be walked by his mother to go see his sister.

"Come along," she murmured to him, rising and leaving before he had time to toddle after her. He was such a small boy, only seven years of age. He didn't deserve to be such a burden on his mother.

Robert nodded after the boy and then turned to Ned, serious of face. "Abductions on the kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my streets," the king said. "I will not have it, Ned."

"Catelyn had good reason for taking the Imp-"

"I said, I will not have it! To hell with her reasons. You will command her to release the dwarf at once, and you will make peace with Lancel, fool as he may be."

"Three of my men were butchered before my eyes, because Tywin Lannister wished to chasten me by use of that boy Lancel. Am I to forget that?"

"Your Grace, see to reason. Lancel attacked my father out of spite, no more. The queen may whisper of brothels and whores and drink all she likes to you, but you know my father better than that, Robert. Ask Lord Baelish if you doubt him. He was there- I saw him there," Lyla said in defense of her father, squeezing his hand.

"I've talked to Littlefinger," Robert said. "He claims he rode off to bring the gold cloaks before the fighting began, but he admits you were returning from some whorehouse."

"Some whorehouse? Damn your eyes, Robert, I was there to have a look at your daughter! Her mother named her Barra. She looks like that first girl you fathered, when we were boys together in the Vale." He glanced to Lyla as he spoke, and she looked to Robert. He seemed flushed all anew.

"Barra," he muttered. "Is that supposed to please me? Damn the girl. I thought she had more sense."

"She cannot be more than fifteen, and a whore, and you thought she had sense?" Lyla raised a brow at the king and he looked away, grumbling. Her father sighed and she turned to him, noticing that his leg must be paining him something awful. "The fool child is in love with you, Robert," her father told his oldest friend.

Robert glanced to Lyla. "This is no fit subject for the lady's ears."

Her father simply sighed, for they all knew how bawdy Lyla was, and continued. "I am told the young Lannister has fled the city. Give me leave to join my daughter's husband to bring him back to justice."

Robert swallowed from his cup, pondering, before he finally spoke. "No," he said. "I want no more of this. Lancel slew three of your men, and you five of his. Now it ends."

"Is that your notion of justice?" Ned flared. "If so, I am pleased that I am no longer your Hand."

"If any man had dared speak to a Targaryen as he has spoken to you..." Cersei stood in the doorway now, leaning on it, eying her husband with a strong distaste.

"Do you take me for Aerys?" He asked with fury.

"I took you for a king. Lancel and Tyrion are your own brother and cousin, by all the laws of marriage and the bonds we share. The Starks have driven off one and seized the other. This man dishonors you with every breath he takes, and yet you stand there meekly, asking his his leg pains him and would he like some wine."

Robert's face darkened to that of an eggplant with the anger that swirled under his cheeks. "How many times must I tell you to hold your tongue, woman?"

The queen's face looked a mask of steel, neither indifferent nor interested. "What a jape the gods have made of us two," she said. "By all rights, you ought to be in skirts and me in mail."

Raging and furious, Robert lashed out with an iron back-hand to the side of his wife's head. She stumbled against the table and slumped hard to the ground, but Cersei did not cry out. She reached a small hand up, where slender fingers brushed along her already reddening cheek. By night, her face would be half gold and half black, and a Baratheon she would look for true. "I shall wear this as a badge of honor," she announced.

"Wear it in silence, or I'll honor you again." Robert glared at her with daggers in his eyes, and when he shouted for a guard, Ser Meryn Trant entered, looking ever somber in his scaled white armor. "The queen is tired. See her to her bedchamber." Without a word or question, the knight helped her to her feet and led her out just as Robert filled his cup again. Lyla looked to him with dark eyes, however, and put a hand over his cup, shaking her head.

He frowned and tossed the cup to the corner, seating himself. The rage was gone, and in its place was sadness and fright. "My loving wife. The mother of my children. I should not have hit her. That was not... that was not kingly." He stared down at the two fists in his lap as though they were cleavers and not hands. "I was always strong... no one could stand before me, no one. How do you fight someone if you can't hit them?" He shook his head and looked up at Lyla. "Rhaegar... Rhaegar won, damn him. I killed him, girl, I drove the spike right through that black armor into his black heart, and he died at my feet. They made up songs about it. Yet somehow he still won. He has Lyanna now, and I have her."

"Your Grace," Lyla said. "We must talk..." It was the most opportune moment to discuss her and Jaime leaving with her father, the girls, and the royal children.

But Robert pressed his fingers against his temples. "I am sick unto death of talk. On the morrow I'm going to the kingswood to hunt. Whatever you have to say can wait until I return."

"If the gods are good, we shall not be here upon your return," Lyla murmured. "You commanded my father to return to Winterfell, remember? He'll be coming with Jaime and I, and my sisters and your children, to Casterly Rock. Until he is better and well enough to travel home, to the North."

"The gods are seldom good, Lyla." Robert tossed her father the Hand's pin- a heavy silver hand clasp. "Here, this is yours. Like it or not, you are my Hand, damn you. I forbid you to leave."

Lyla watched in horror as her father toyed with the pin. There was no room for choice in this demand, she knew. "The Targaryen girl-" he was cut off by the king.

"Seven hells, don't start with her again. That's done, I'll hear no more of it."

Lyla narrowed her eyes and stood, folding her arms over her belly. "Why would you want him as your Hand, if you refuse to listen to his counsel?"

He looked at her, exasperated. "Why? Why not? Someone has to rule this damnable kingdom. Put on the badge, Ned. It suits you. And if you ever throw it in my face again, I swear to you, I'll pin the damned thing on Jaime Lannister." Lyla tried to speak, but he hushed her. "Quiet. You can take those girls and my son and daughter with you to that damn castle, but not my Hand. I'll not budge on it."

He left in a swirl of cloak and boots, his guards following him, and Lyla looked to her father fearfully. "I'm not leaving without you," she said, lip quivering. "I'm not, I swear it."

Eddard took his daughter's hand and kissed it, frowning. "You'll go with your husband and you'll take Sansa and Arya with you. I'm not putting you in danger here in the capitol. You or your little cub."

Her eyes grew wet and she released a quiet sob, moving to curl up beside him on the bed. "I cannot leave you. You're my father and I love you," she whispered as he wrapped an arm around her and she laid her head on his chest, tears falling to his doublet. "The lone wolf dies while the pack survives, Father. I'll not let you be a lone wolf."

He hugged her close and she looked up at him with watery eyes. Ned kissed the top of her head and sighed. "That husband of yours will never let you stay here with me. He'll make you go and I'll let him take you. Lyla, I may be Hand but I am your father first and foremost. I will not allow you to be harmed."

"And I won't be," she said, "because I'll be with you."

"It is because you will be with me that you will be harmed."

He stared down at her sadly and she reached a hand up to his face, giving him a sullen, dark smile as she started to hum a song he and Catelyn used to sing to her when she was small.

"If I talk real slowly, if I try real hard

To make my point dear, that you have my heart

Here I go, I'll tell you what you already know..."

*The song used at the end of this chapter is Angus & Julia Stone's 'For You'*


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

The faint sound of a single drop of water hitting cold stone woke him, and he slowly opened his eyes, peering into the darkness. At first glance he could tell there was a single candle in the room, with no furniture aside from a small chest and the cot he lay on. Slowly he sat up, rubbing his eyes and taking a second look.

There was a small line of windows towards the top of the chamber, all closed but the sun shining through them, and when he made to move out of the cot there was a light whimpering.

He shot up immediately and looked down to where he saw a large mound of pepper brown fur beside the bunk. It unwound itself and he sighed in relief when she raised her head and looked up at him with big brown eyes. It was Rose, Lyla's direwolf.

Jaime sat back down and ruffled the fur on the wolf's neck, leaning into her. Now it was clear why he was in this cold cell.

Lancel had been a ploy, a pawn used by his father to get him to Casterly Rock. He'd been furious when he found out about it, had sent Loras back to King's Landing and whatever guards wanted to follow, along with a wounded Jory Cassel. But he'd been taken, sent to the place that was home but had never felt as much.

"You will help me take your brother back, Jaime, and I'll hear no quarrel on it," Tywin had said, staring up from his maps and letters with cold pale green eyes. "And should you fight me I'll lock you in a cell. Until you decide to stop acting like a fool and start acting like the lion you are."

Jaime had fought, and brilliantly at that, though it lead him nowhere but a chilly room of only stones with a single box for a change of clothes and the wolf of Lyla's. Tyrion was his brother, but Lyla was his wife. He would have no part in what might happen to the Starks due to his father's will.

There was a loud clanking of boots on the cold cobble and Jaime looked up to see a torch lighting the hallway as a man crept towards his door, all metal but for a slot on the top to speak from and on the bottom to slide trays into. "My lord," came a quiet voice, and Jaime raised a brow, rising and going towards the door. The men who brought him things never called him that, only Ser Jaime or simply Ser.

"Who is it?" He asked, fingering Rose's fur as she stood and followed him to the entrance of the room. "Well?"

"My lord, it is Maester Creylen," the voice said, and Jaime peeked over the top opening to see a withered old man with kind grey eyes and thick brown robes, chain tied loosely around him. "I am here to look at your wounds."

Oh, Jaime thought. He'd almost forgotten about the wounds he'd suffered when he defied his father's will and the guards had wrathfully tried to drag him down to the cells. There was a long cut on his arm, much like Lyla's only less so, and a black bruise on his forehead from when the guards threw him into the room, cut open and still weeping blood.

"Come in," he told the maester, making his way back to the cot.

The door cried in distress as the man shoved multiple keys in to the designated locks and pushed it open, swaggering in and shutting it behind him. He was carrying a box full of bottles and gauze and tools, as well as a tray with his morning meal.

"Thank you," Jaime mumbled as the man set the tray atop the box that held his clothes so that he didn't have to sit on the cold ground to eat.

"Of course, my lord." Creylen gave him a smile and looked to the direwolf with wide eyes. "So the rumors are true then? Direwolves after so many years hidden away beyond the Wall. Such a shame this one is so far from her master. Tell me, does your lady wife fare well?" He began rolling up the sleeve of Jaime's doublet, to reach the wound that had been hastily wrapped by himself once he'd gotten inside of the cell.

He pursed his lips. "I was wondering if perhaps you could tell me," he said hesitantly. Maester Creylen had been kind to Jaime when he was a boy, so maybe he would be kind now. "Do you know of any word that my father may have received? Of my wife or her father or sisters?"

The maester pulled a glass bottle from the box and pulled at the cap with his teeth until it opened, and he poured the liquid over Jaime's arm. It burned, and he hissed and gripped the cot with a white-knuckled fist. "As you know your father confides with your uncle more so than any other..." He looked up at Jaime. "But your uncle does trust me. He tells me that Lord Stark has woken, and that the King has taken to hunting. I've also heard of your wife's certain success in the marriage bed. Congratulations, my lord."

"But no news of her?" He shouldn't give way that he was vulnerable when it came to Lyla, as he was then, but he trusted this maester. He was no Varys, only a kind old man. Creylen shook his head. At least Stark is awake. Maybe he'll have the sense to stay out of Casterly Rock for now, Jaime thought, hoping that the man was smarter than to allow his family to travel to a place where they would just stay hostage, and perhaps even be killed.

As the old man began re wrapping Jaime's arm, he looked up with kind eyes. "My lord, perhaps if you help your father..."

"I will not help him destroy my wife's family." Jaime cut him off haughtily, narrowing his own eyes.

"I'm not saying that is what you must help him with," said the man softly. "But perhaps you can come to terms with his lordship, and make him see reason to a proper trade. Have the Lady Catelyn come to King's Landing with Lord Tyrion and we can have a proper trial."

Jaime considered the maester for a moment, but then shook his head. "It would never work. Catelyn Stark wants her own justice, and my father wants justice too. But a different kind."

"Revenge is not justice, my lord." Creylen gave him a meaningful look and tied the wrap together, along with cleaning the opened wound on his forehead before putting his viles back into his box and standing straight. "Your father does all he does for the House. But I like to think he also does it because somewhere, he loves you. However grudgingly he would like to admit it. You are his son, and Tyrion as well. He is just trying to protect his cubs."

With that the man left and Jaime was alone in the room with Rose, staring at the door. After much deliberation, he shouted out the open slot on the top of the metalwork. "Tell my father I'll help him," he called out the chamber, and he could hear the maester pause.

"As you wish, -" It was all Jaime needed to hear before he turned back to the room, ruffled the direwolf's fur and went to his tray of food, digging into it. The meals were all extravagant, for a Lannister deserved no less in Casterly Rock, locked in a cell or no.

Maester Creylen was right. Jaime needed to stop being stubborn and start being rational. If not for his own sake, then for Lyla's. She was carrying their babe and should war break between House Lannister and House Stark, she would be caught in the middle. She was both, born a Stark and married to a Lannister. Where would her loyalties lie? With House Stark, a voice in his head told him, it always will. But their child would be a bastard, a Lannister bastard, should she choose the Starks- and she loved Jaime. Perhaps she would choose lions over wolves. Or stay neutral.

Rose came up beside him and curled close, laying her head on his lap. It was heavy, and the wolf was the size of a pony now. A child could ride on it, or perhaps a small woman even, about the size of Lyla's red haired sister Sansa. "You're getting big," he murmured to the wolf, rubbing her back and feeding her a few rolls from the tray as he ate some steak, seasoned with peppers and honey.

The wolf whined, as if in agreement, and Jaime placed the tray between them, allowing her to eat what she wanted once he'd had his fill. Rising, he kicked the box containing the one pair of clothes and it popped open. He bent down, ripping his top and bottoms off before dressing in the fresh garb and running his fingers through his hair. A guard would come to take him to his father any moment, and going to see Tywin dressed in soiled garb was no option.

The daylight had stung his eyes and burned him as he entered the world of Casterly Rock, Rose at his side and leashed with a thick scarf. The men all cowered at the sight of the direwolf, and Jaime smirked at them. He knew this wolf was of the gentlest nature, but they didn't. They thought she would snap at any time, but Rose wasn't the kind to go against her owner's wishes. She would only attack if Lyla told her to, and Lyla wasn't there.

He was led through countless corridors and halls, all familiar but not. It was like he was a child again, running through the castle with Cersei and Tyrion trailing behind him, carrying the finest of wooden swords, painted gold. He could almost hear their young laughter as it bounced off the walls and resonated within him. Times had been so simple when they were children. When they weren't a knight and a queen and the Imp. When there was love.

They turned a corner and Jaime found himself in the Lord's Chamber, his father standing before him, hunched over papers and maps, the very room that he had been in when he instructed Jaime be sent to a cell for disobeying. "Sit down," he commanded, not yet looking up.

Jaime sat in a chair of plush red velvet and Rose lay at his feet, eying Tywin cautiously and nudging at his legs. "Father," he greeted, rubbing the wolf's neck as the hairs stood on it.

The Great Lion of Casterly Rock finally looked at him, pale green eyes flecked with gold grown to ice. "So you have decided to throw childish games aside and serve your family?" He asked, steel in his voice. It wasn't a true question, though, for he knew it was rather a confirmation of whispers.

"I have," Jaime said "but only if to come to an agreement between lions and wolves. There needs not be war between us."

"There needs not be," Lord Tywin agreed, "but House Stark must be put in their place. Their silly northern games are not law here in the West and we will not allow them to do as they want simply because their lord is Hand. There must be sense."

"Sense would be to call Catelyn Stark to court with Tyrion and see them justice by the laws of the king," said Jaime. "I believe that this can very easily be solved."

His father raised a brow and pulled away from the desk, sitting in the great chair behind it. "Robert is on a hunting trip with his brother, Renly, and your cousin Tyrek," he informed.

"So we will wait until he gets back," Jaime said. "It can't take that long, can it?"

Tywin raised a brow at his son and resumed looking at his maps. "I heard of your wife's pregnancy," he said, changing the subject. "I had expected you and the northern girl to move into Casterly Rock by that time."

"Surely you know I can't take a Stark here while we are near waging war on them?" Jaime snorted at the stupidity of it, and his father shot his eyes up at him, cold and unforgiving.

"I know that you can take your wife to Casterly Rock, where she will be safest while she carries the heir of House Lannister. I will not have her running freely around Westeros when her duty if first to our House."

Jaime stared at his father for a long time, eyes growing hard. Tywin was speaking to him like he knew naught of how to take care of his wife and keep her safe- and if truth be told, he was so angry because it was true. He would not have left her in King's Landing while he went out searching for his cousin. It was a terrible move in the game, to leave Lyla unattended like that, even with Addam Marbrand as one of her four guards.

He raked a hand through his hair, clutching Rose with the other. "You will send for her," Tywin said. His voice drew Jaime from his thoughts.

"She will never come." He looked up at his father with a stony expression, one that was Lannister through and through. "She will stay with her family that needs her, and I will go to her."

"Go to her? Do you think me a fool? I'll not let you leave your responsibilities behind for some northern girl. You will stay." Tywin stood, folding his arms. His voice never rose, it only grew colder.

There was a silence between them and Jaime could feel the vibrations ripple through Rose as she growled. "My child will not be safe without its father," Jaime tried, eyes hard on the ground.

"Your child will not be safe without House Lannister to protect it. I will send envoys to King's Landing. Should your wife wish to stay there, she will be forced here, rather come willingly. I'll not have my heir go without."

"It is my child -"

"- and my grandchild. Do you truly believe I had you taken from the Kingsguard because it was something you wanted? Jaime, I did it for House Lannister, and for the continuation of so. I will not allow the woman carrying the future Lord of Casterly Rock to stay in that cesspool of miscreants, and I will not allow her husband to indulge her. You will stay here and once your wife comes along with my men, you will leave with me to where your uncle Kevan has started to make arrangements for our encampment. Should the Starks be in want of war, we will be ready. Now leave me."

Tywin spoke to the guards quickly before Jaime was led away, but not in the direction of the cells- he was being taken to his old room, the one he'd had as a child.

Rose padded along side him and Jaime ran his fingers through her fur, pursing his lips as he entered the room and the door was closed behind him. The wolf ran to the bed and sprang up on it, and he walked to the balcony, stretching his arms on the length of the bannister. He sighed, staring out at the sea, warm and pink and glittering like a million diamonds before him. He could remember jumping from the cliffs and into the waters, hot in the summer breeze, Tyrion at his side.

Before he married Lyla, he would have attacked Ned Stark himself. He would have run to Casterly Rock to begin planning a desperate attack to bring his brother home. But he was a husband now- he was Lyla's husband, and she was carrying his babe. But did that truly change so much? Tyrion was his brother, his blood, and he missed him. It had been his demise to marry at all, though now he couldn't imagine life without his little wife. Her soft kisses and how she held his hand so gently and cuddled him through the nights when neither could sleep.

He closed his eyes and imagined her, brown curls falling to the small of her back and cool blue eyes so happy to see him as he burst through the door, Rose at her side. He could feel her touch, insistent and collective as the minutes passed. He could feel her belly, grown hard and round as the pregnancy developed. A lion, he thought, she's carrying a lion. A babe that she hoped so much would be a little boy with dark hair and grey eyes like her father. Years flashed in his mind and he could see the bobbing heads of children playing in the gardens, running along with one another, and he and Lyla strolled casually behind them.

Surely that was enough. Surely his wife and the child inside of her were enough reason as to why Jaime knew he couldn't risk himself in the ways he had before, when he was just the Kingslayer and not a husband first and foremost. He was needed now, not just in need, and he couldn't put himself in a position that could get him killed when he had a family waiting for him across the Gold Road.

He sighed, making his way to the bed and curling up with Rose, pulling furs over himself and kicking his boots halfway across the room. Perhaps he would dream a solution to this mess, or perhaps he would dream of Lyla, and her sweet smiles, like he had every night since he'd been away.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

She was in Winterfell.

The castle was covered in snow, more than she'd ever seen, and the sun's light was filtered through thick grey clouds. Crystals of winter's frost fell from the sky like tiny diamonds, twinkling in the dim brightness of the day. Laughter caught her attention, and she turned her head around, noticing a flash of deep brown locks. Fully spinning around, she saw four children. There were three boys, all gathered in bundles of fur and holding small wooden swords in their gloved hands. The only girl was sitting on a bench of whitewood, book in her hands though her eyes were not on the pages.

The small girl watched the three boys intently, making a study of them. The eldest looked to be at the most thirteen years of age, though they played around and practiced like those older than their time. "Come on, Benjen, you're too slow!" The tallest of the boys cried out as he whacked away at the lesser child.

Benjen huffed and clutched his little wood sword tighter before swinging at his elder brother. "He's not practiced as much as you, Brandon, and he's younger," said the little girl, who raised her chin high as she raised a dark brow at her brothers. "You can't believe he'll beat you?" Wise beyond her years was the girl, who shut her book and rose, folding her arms. "Why not practice with Eddard?"

"Yes, why not?" The middle boy crossed his arms and his stony face held.

"If Benjen doesn't practice then he'll never be as good as I am," defended Brandon. "I'm only trying to teach him, Lya." Benjen fell to the snow with a final knock from his brother.

The girl stared her male counterpart with a stern eye. She couldn't have been more than six, but she had a force of iron underneath her already budding beauty, curls of brown falling to her lower waist and grey eyes calculating. Her youngest brother sat there with his own eyes of blue, dark hair ruffled from play, looking at his sister like a doe.

When she nodded to the boy, he stood once more, wiping snow from his trousers, and handed her the sword of wood- but she did not charge after her elder brother, she ran towards Lyla.

Stuck in fear, she could only feel her hot breath as it slapped her cheeks with each exhale and suddenly she could feel it, the sword slicing into her skin. When she looked down, she noticed the sword was no longer of wood, but metal, blood pouring around it. When she looked back up, it was not a six year old Lyanna Stark wielding it, but a woman well into her age with golden hair and bright green eyes.

"I told you she was just an ugly, dirty northerner," said the queen, looking towards a man that was equal to her in every way. "Do you see, Jaime? She is cut so easily." With another stab into her belly, the woman let her drop to her knees and Lyla felt hot tears rolling down her neck as she touched her stomach and whimpered.

My baby.

Awaking in a cold sweat, Lyla shot up, body roiling as she leaned off the side of the bed and emptied her belly. "Ca... Carinya!" She screamed out, coughing and falling hands and knees into the vile mess that she'd just vomited up, hair wetting in the liquid. "Carinya!" She called again. Her hand went to her stomach, holding it. Through her thin shift she could feel the spot that had grown harder with her pregnancy, now nearing its second month of progress.

Sitting back and caressing her belly, she felt the water slide down her face. The dreams had been coming more frequently now, the ones where she would lose the babe that grew within her or where she was home again- but she was not herself in those. Throwing her head back against the furs that hung low on the side of the bed, she let the sobs shake her body without resentment, sitting in her throw up, She hadn't time to worry about it, when she was already worrying about her babe. Was it a sign that in every dream she lost it? Was she going to lose it?

The door swung open and in came a rush of boots and soft slippers. Addam Marbrand knelt at her side and sighed, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her while Carinya fluttered at his side, mussing with her hair and pulling it back, drying the tears from under her eyes. It was not the first time that this had happened in the past two weeks that Jaime had been gone. Her ladymaid ensured her that it was normal for a woman with child to have strange dreams, but Lyla knew there was something more to her night terrors- there was something true in them.

Carinya quickly left to fetch hot water for a bath and Ser Addam lay Lyla in the tub. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the man who so reminded her of her brother, Robb. "I... could have walked in myself..."

"Nonsense," he said. "I'm here to help, my lady. Truly, I enjoy serving you." Ser Addam was a handsome man, with creamy skin and copper hair, and his sincerity was so comforting. She wondered how heenjoyed serving a tired, sick, pregnant woman all hours of the night, when he could and should be out romancing some pretty tavern maid.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, leaning into the giant tub. "Has there been any word of Jaime yet?" She asked, looking to him from the corner of her eye. The answer would be the same as it was every day, but asking made her feel better for some reason. He should not be gone for so long, and especially without word.

"I'm sorry, my lady, but no. There has been no word."

"Of course not." She turned her head up to see Carinya enter the bathing chamber with a few buckets of hot water, the other three guards carrying more. Once the tub was filled the men all left, to fetch maids to clean the mess by the bed, and Carinya undressed Lyla, beginning to gently scrub at her skin. The woman that Jaime had appointed to her as a handmaid had always been so kind- it was a constant relief.

She could hear the scraping of rough brushes against the stone floor as little maids worked to clean the vomit. "I ought to sleep with my head in a chamberpot," she jested to Carinya, but her handmaid did not laugh.

"You're just not used to the babe yet is all," insisted the pretty young maid, whose braid fell frizzy down her side, fuzzed from sleep. "You must get some rest today, my lady. You're not well. Perhaps I shall bring in Maester Pycelle? I've heard from other handmaids that bedrest works wonders on an exhausted body."

"I'll not go on bedrest." Her voice was firmer than need be, but she cared not anymore. It had been the fourth time at least that her maid had suggested it, and though she knew it was meant in the best intentions, she couldn't help but feel like it was an easy way to keep her out of trouble, out of the way of her father and the king and her husband. Not that she needed to be kept from Jaime's troubles- he had run away from her and the baby.

I should have known he was faking it, she thought bitterly. I should have known he would end up leaving me and making his way home now that he's been taken from the Kingsguard. He probably will just annul the marriage now that he's had his way and wed some pretty southerner. But he had said he loved her, and the babe. He had offered to take her and her family far away where they could be safe- not that Casterly Rock was safe with it housing Tywin Lannister. He would probably have her father and sisters put to death, wait until she had birthed her babe by Jaime, and then kill her too.

Carinya had begun to help her from the tub and dry her off when she heard an odd commotion outside her bedchamber and pulled on a thick velvet robe of silver, lined in white. "What is going on?" She demanded of her guards, all blocking her door. She stood on her tiptoes and watched as two men carried a stretcher across the hall. A man, tall and black haired, stared at her for a moment before returning to the other man's side, who was dripping blood on the cobble floors.

"Renly," she called. "Renly!"

Shoved her guards aside and running through them, she reached the king's brother, tugging on his arm. "You should go back to your chamber," he said with eyes as large as moons. "Please, Lyla, return to your bed. Or see to your sisters. Please."

Looking to the man on the stretcher, Lyla gasped and tears filled her eyes. The smell of corruption finally reached her nose and she covered her mouth to hide a choked sob as she saw Robert Baratheon lain straight on the sheet of ivory. There was a tusk stuck in his chest, and blood spilled all over. By first glance she could see. She knew.

"Oh gods, no," she whispered, grabbing at Robert's hand. It was a struggle to keep up with the men that ran His Grace down the halls, spiriting him away to where the royal apartments were. "Oh hells."

They gently placed Robert on his giant bed and the king grunted, looking around. "Where is my damned brother," he screamed, wincing at the pain from the tusk in his chest moving with each word.

"I am here, Robert," said Renly, making his way to Robert's side, laying a hand on Lyla's shoulder. "What do you need?"

"I need my damn Hand," cursed the king. "Ned, I need Ned."

"Your Grace, I wish for my father to come as well, but we need the maester here first." Lyla smoothed his hair back and pursed her lips. "You must be treated."

Robert eyed her and nodded. "As you will," he said. It was the same thing he'd said to Cersei about the direwolves. But Jaime saved them.

Pycelle arrived quickly and removed the tusk with a hurry, pouring various vials of ointment onto the wound and rubbing lotions around the gash as if to alleviate the skin around it before he doused it with boiling wine and tried his best to stitch the flabs together. After he'd finished, Lyla placed a heavy blanket over Robert's belly. "Drink, Your Grace, please drink." The old man held a bottle of milk of the poppy to Robert's lips and at first he looked as if he would decline, but Lyla glared at him and- in a very improper fashion- reach a hand out and forced his mouth open for the maester the pour the mixture down.

"If you stay stubborn like that you'll die," she warned.

Robert snorted. "And if I don't I'll die just as fast, only I won't be able to talk."

She shook her head, holding his hand until he fell into a deep sleep. "Call for my father," she told the king's personal steward. "Bring Tomard and Cayn." The man raised a chin, like he would defy, but she stood and grabbed his doublet by the collar. "Call for my father," she repeated through ground teeth.

The man blinked back shock at the unladylike act and made his way quickly to find her father's guards and wake the Lord Stark.

She sat back down in the chair by Robert's bed and sighed, looking over to Renly. "What in the seven hells happened, Renly?" She asked. Robert's crown lay on the table beside him and he looked to be sweating a storm. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't. Robert couldn't be dying. They were thoughts that kept creeping through her mind, but when she looked at him, laying there with bloody bandages hastily wrapped over his chest seeping with blood and his skin so colorless, she knew it would be true. No man could survive such a powerful blow. It was a miracle he was still alive.

"The boar... Robert was so drunk and he wouldn't leave it. He waited until the last moment but he was too slow."

"Why did you not help him? Why not go after the boar or shoot at it with arrows? I should have gone with you all. Or sent Addam." She shook her head, freshly dried curls bouncing furiously around her. "How could you be so simple as to let this happen to Robert? Where is Her Grace?" It wasn't that Lyla wanted to see the queen, not after her dream, but she should be with Robert.

"I am here." The voice was tired and croaked, and both Lyla and Renly turned to see Cersei standing in the doorway, though she did not stay there for long. Gathering her skirts, she rushed to Robert, all sleep leaving her eyes. "It is true then," she murmured, taking his hand and sitting at the end of the bed, pursing her lips. Queen Cersei wore no lavish gown or jewels or tiara, only a simple sleep-shift of crimson with tousled hair of gold falling down her shoulder. The woman looked beautiful, even for her age and the children she'd had, and for a moment, Lyla saw a touch of sadness in the monarch's emerald eyes.

"Shall I bring the children, your Highness?" Asked Jocelyn Swyft, the queen's lady-in-waiting.

Cersei turned her head slightly, considering it. "No," she decided in the end. "No, let them sleep. Better they have sweet dreams than see..."

"Yes, my queen." The lady bowed her head and folded her hands together.

"How?" Cersei looked up to Renly with a raised brow. "How did this happen?"

"It was a boar, Your Grace," Lyla said softly, looking at Robert as he began to wake, slowly. He looked from Renly to Lyla to Cersei, and grimaced, laying his head back and pursing his lips.

Maester Pycelle was standing on the other side of Robert's bed, Renly paced in front of the window, and Cersei sat at his bed, with Lyla at his side. Servants ran all over the rooms, feeding the dual fireplaces and boiling more wine. Suddenly the door burst open. It was the steward. "Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King," he announced.

"Bring him here," Robert called in his dream-milk slick voice.

The room was red from the fire, and as her father entered, his white skin burned ruby. He looked around, and she followed his stare. To where Robert's boots were still on his feet, caked in mud and grass, and where the green doublet he was wearing had been slashed open and discarded on the ground, crusty with brown blood. When his nose wrinkled she knew it was because of the smells; smoke and blood and death.

"Ned," the king whispered when blue eyes caught grey. "Come... closer."

Her father went to the side of the bed, holding the bedpost for support. He still leaned heavily on his walking-stick, and his plaster-sheathed leg was loud on the ground as he walked. When her father finally noticed her, she reached a hand to his and squeezed, hoping he would understand that explanations for her presence were not of importance. He looked back to Robert. "What...?"

"A boar," Lyla said. Across the room Lord Renly grunted his agreement. He was still dressed in his hunter greens, all blood-spattered and slick.

"A devil," Robert corrected. "My own fault. Too much wine, damn me to hell. Missed my thrust."

"And where were the rest of you?" Ned glared at Renly, eyes demanding. "Where was Ser Barristan and the Kingsguard?"

Renly's mouth twitched darkly. "My brother commanded us to stand aside and let him take the boar alone."

Her father lifted the blanket.

She stared at Robert's deformed body with eyes grown misty from the stench. He had been ripped from groin to nipple, and though they'd done what they could to close him, it wasn't enough. The wine-soaked bandages that Pycelle had wrapped over him had already gone black with blood, and the would smelled horrendous. When he dropped the blanket, it fluidly fell back in place, covering the wound and masking some of the scent. Where the royal apartments had once smelled of perfumes and lavender, they now smelled of rat poison and gore.

"Stinks," Robert said. "The stink of death, don't think I can't smell it. Bastard did me good, eh? But I... I paid him back in kind, Ned." Robert's smile made Lyla cringe- it was almost as awful as his gash, bloody and clotted as it was. "Drove a knife right through his eye. Ask them if I didn't. Ask them."

"Truly," affirmed Lord Renly. "We brought the carcass back with us, at my brother's command." He seemed to say that everything had been at Robert's command, but who had been there to command Robert? He may have been a king, but even kings needed to be told no every once in a while.

"For the feast," Robert whispered. "Now leave us. The lot of you. I need to speak with Ned."

Cersei's lip quivered, however slightly. "Robert, my sweet lord..."

"I said leave," Robert insisted with some of his old ferocity. "What part of that don't you understand, woman?" Rising, Cersei gathered her skirts and left with the rest of her dignity, Renly and the others behind her. Lyla went to follow, but Robert caught her hand. "Not you... you stay."

She looked to her father, who nodded, before sitting back down. "Please, father, take the weight from your leg and sit," she urged, patting the chair beside her. He looked at it and then sighed, taking a seat.

Grand Maester Pycelle came over with his shaky hands, vial of thick white liquid in his grasp. It was the dream-milk that he'd given the king earlier. "The milk of the poppy, You Grace," he said. "Drink. For your pain."

But Robert knocked the cup away with the back of his hand and grunted. "Away with you. I'll sleep soon enough, old fool. Get out."

The Grand Maester looked at her father, stricken, before he shuffled from the room.

"Damn you, Robert," said her father once it was just they three. She could tell he was in pain from his leg, but she could also tell he was feeling grief, as it clouded his eyes like rain clouds. "Why do you always have to be so headstrong?" The question seemed to pain him.

"Ah, fuck you, Ned." The king sounded hoarse. "I killed the bastard, didn't I?" A curl of matted hair fell into Robert's eyes as he glared at her father, and Lyla wiped it away, cupping his cheek lightly before folding her hands together. "Ought to do you same for you. Can't leave a man to his hunt in peace. Ser Robar found me. Gregor's head. Ugly thought. Never told the Hound. Let Cersei surprise him." As soon as the king laughed he fell into a grunt, spasming with pain. "Gods have mercy," he muttered, swallowing in agony. "The girl. Daenerys. Only a child, you were right... that's why, the girl... the gods sent the boar... sent to punish me..." The king coughed up blood, and Lyla wiped some from her cheek with the back of her hand. "Wrong, it was wrong, I... only a girl... Varys, Littlefinger, even my brother... worthless... no one to tell me no but you, Ned... only you..." He feebly lifted a hand. "Paper and ink. There, on the table. Lyla, write what I tell you."

She smoothed the parchment out on her knee and took the quill. "At your command, Your Grace," she said.

"This is the will and word of Robert of House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and all the rest- put in the damn titles, you know how it goes. I do hereby command Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to serve as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my... upon my death... to rule in my... in my stead, until my son Joffrey does come of age."

"Robert..." Her father began, but he quieted. He looked to Lyla, staring at the paper, and under the pressure of his gaze and by the motions of his lips as he mouthed the words to write, she bent her head and stated "my heir" in place of "my son Joffrey". Her eyes flew quizzical up to him, but he had already looked away. My heir? Joffrey was the heir. But she would not defy her father's will.

"What else would you have me say?" She asked Robert.

"Say... whatever you need to. Protect and defend, gods old and new, you have the words. Write. I'll sign it. You give it to the council when I'm dead." Lyla looked up at the king with sad eyes and then looked back down, writing what needed to be said.

"Robert," her father said in a voice thick with grief. "You must not do this. don't die on me. The realm needs you."

Robert took Ned's hand, fingers squeezing. "You are such a bad liar, Ned Stark," he said through his pain. "The realm... the realm knows... what a wretched king I've been. Bad as Aerys, the gods spare me."

"No," Lyla said to the dying man, placing the paper and quill down on the bedside table. "Not so bad as Aerys, Your Grace. Not near so bad as Aerys."

Robert managed a red smile and his eyes went from Ned to Lyla and back to Ned. "At the least, they will say... this last thing... this I did right. You won't fail me. You'll rule now. You'll hate it, worse than I did... but you'll do well. Are you done with the scribbling, girl?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Lyla said as she offered the paper to Robert. The king scrawled his signature blindly, leaving a smear of blood across the letter. "The seal should be witnessed."

"Serve the boar at my funeral feast," rasped the king. "Apple in its mouth, skin seared crisp. Eat the bastard. Don't care if you choke on him. Promise me, Ned."

"I promise." Her father's eyes grew cold as the king spoke those last three words, and it was like he was staring into the eyes of a ghost for a moment before the king spoke and dragged him from whatever fantasy he was having.

"The girl," the king said. "Daenerys. Let her live. If you can, if it... not too late... talk to them... Varys, Littlefinger... don't let them kill her. And help my son, Ned. Make him be... better than me." He winced. "Gods have mercy."

"They will my friend," Ned said. "They will."

Robert closed his blue eyes, visibly relaxing. "Killed by a pig. Ought to laugh but it hurts too much."

Neither she nor her father laughed. "Shall I call them back?" Eddard asked of his friend.

"As you will." The king nodded, then shivered. "Gods, why is it so cold in here?"

Servants rushed in like water, feeding the fires at Lyla's command. The queen had gone and Robert seemed to miss her naught. Renly, the Grand Maester, and Lyla all stood watch as Robert pressed the seal onto the letter, stamping a black stag into the hot yellow wax that her father had dripped onto the paper. "Now give me something for the pain and let me die," Robert ordered.

The maester worked quickly to mix another drought of the milk of the poppy, and Robert drank until his beard was beaded with white droplets. "Will I dream?"

"You will, my lord," Lyla said. She'd had the poppy's milk enough at Winterfell when she'd broken all sorts of her bones, and she'd dreamed each time.

He smiled once more. "Good. I will give Lyanna your love, Ned. Lyla, take care of the little ones for me."

She nodded and ran a finger across his brow. "Of course."

Her father also spoke. "I shall... guard your children as if they were my own," he said slowly. She caught him staring at her belly, where she and Jaime's child grew, and she raised a brow- but he would not meet her eyes.

She stayed by his side until he fell back asleep, not snoring but deep and restful. He looked so young there in his bed, hands at his sides and black beard covering his extra chins. He might have even seemed handsome in a certain light as he lay there, but not particularly. Rising, she placed kisses to his cheeks and smiled sadly at him in his sleep, taking her father's hand and allowing him to escort her from the royal chambers.

Maester Pycelle found them as soon as they'd gotten to the main entrance of the apartments. "I will do all in my power, my lord, but the wound has mortified. It took them two days to get him back. By the time I saw him, it was too late. I can lessen His Grace's suffering, but only the gods can heal him now."

"How long?" Lyla asked.

"By rights, he should be dead already. I have never seen a man cling to life to fiercely."

"My brother was always strong," Renly commented. "Not wise, perhaps, but strong." The chamber was so hot she felt as though her skin would boil, and Lyla released her father's arm, making her way into the hall and breathing the cool air- not that it was cold in the hallways, for the South was as hot as it would be, but it was still a relief. She could still hear Renly speak. "He slew the boar. His entrails were sliding from his belly, yet somehow he slew the boar."

Her father met her out in the hall and held a hand to her belly for a moment, raising a brow as though questioning if the babe was okay. She nodded and he turned back to Renly. "Robert was never a man to leave the battleground so long as the foe remained standing," Ned told him.

Looking to Ser Barristan Selmy, who stood guard at the door, her father spoke. "Maester Pycelle has given Robert the milk of the poppy," he said. "See that no one disturbs his rest without leave from me."

"It shall be as you command, my lord." Ser Barristan looked older than his years at that moment, frowning. "I have failed my sacred trust."

"Even the truest knight cannot protect a king against himself," Lyla told the man, giving him a small smile of reassurance.

Ned nodded. "Robert loved to hunt boar. I have seen him take a thousand of them." Her father fell reminiscent and she rubbed his arm to bring him back to the present. "No one could know this one would be his death," he finished.

"You are kind to say so, Lord Eddard and Lady Lyla," Ser Barristan said.

"The king himself said as much. He blamed the wine."

The old knight gave a weary nod. "His Grace was reeling in his saddle by the time we flushed the boar from his lair, yet he commanded us all to stand aside."

"I wonder, Ser Barristan," asked the spider of the capitol, so quietly, "who gave the king this wine?" Lyla steeled herself so she wouldn't jump. She's not heard the eunuch approach, but she turned and there he was. He was dressed in a black robe of velvet that brushed the floor, and his face was freshly powdered.

"The wine was from the king's own skin," Ser Barristan said.

"Only one skin? Hunting is such thirsty work."

"I did not keep count. More than one, for a certainty. His squire would fetch him a fresh skin whenever he required it."

"Such a dutiful boy," said Varys, "to make certain His Grace did not lack for refreshment."

Her father gripped her hand. "Tyrek," he murmured. Lancel had gone west with Jaime in tow. Her heart twisted when she thought of him. She knew her earlier allegations were ridiculous, but how could he have been gone for so long? It had been two weeks when the search should have taken only a few days. She leaned into her father and he laid his arm around her shoulder, kissing the crown of her head.

"I know the lad well," said Varys. "A stalwart boy, Ser Tygett Lannister's son, nephew to Lord Tywin and cousin to the queen. I hope the dear sweet lad does not blame himself. Children are so vulnerable in the innocence of their youth, how well do I remember." The spider's eyes lingered on Lyla for particularly long.

"You mention children," she said. "Robert had a change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen. Whatever arrangements you made, I want them unmade. At once."

"Alas," Varys said. "At once may be too late. I fear those birds have flown. But I shall do what I can, my lady. With your lord father's leave." Ned nodded and the spider bowed before disappearing down the hall, soft-soled slippers whispering against the stone as he went.

Cayn and Tomard went to them, but Lyla waved them off and helped her father across the bridge herself. She couldn't believe that Robert was dead. Joffrey would be king and Sansa would be his queen. The time to save her family was walking on a frail line and if she crossed it, by the smallest of hairs, she would fall into the black pits below.

There was the clamoring of boots and Lyla turned to see Lord Renly emerging from Maegor's Holdfast. "Lord Eddard, Lady Lyla," he called. "A moment if you would be so kind."

Her father stopped. "As you wish."

Renly walked to face them. "Send your men away," he told Lyla. She looked over her shoulder to see Addam Marbrand and her other three guards eying the king's brother with curiosity.

She waved them back, and they responded quickly. Lord Renly glanced warily at Ser Boros on the far end of the span, and at Ser Preston in the doorway behind them. "That letter." He leaned in close. "What is the regency? Has my brother named you Protector?" He didn't bother waiting for a reply. "My lord, I have thirty men in my personal guard and other friends beside, knights and lords. Give me an hour and I can put a hundred swords in your hand."

"And what should he do with a hundred swords, my lord?" Lyla asked for her father.

"Strike! Now, while the castle sleeps." He looked over his shoulder, back at Ser Boros, and dropped his voice to a low whisper. "We must get Joffrey away from his mother and take him in hand. Protector or no, the man who holds the king holds the kingdom. We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have her children, Cersei will not dare oppose us. The council will confirm you as Lord Protector and make Joffrey your ward."

Her father regarded the man with cold grey eyes, sharp like ice. "Robert is not dead yet. The gods may spare him. If not, I shall convene the council to hear his final words and consider the matter of the succession, but I will not dishonor his last hours on the earth by shedding blood in his halls and dragging frightened children from their beds."

Lord Renly stepped back, taut as a bowstring. Was this the kind and loving Renly that Loras had gossiped to her about when she was just a girl in Highgarden? Surely not. "Every moment you delay gives Cersei another moment to prepare. By the time Robert dies, it may be too late... for both of us. For your daughters."

"Then we shall pray that Robert does not die," said Lyla.

"Small chance of that," Renly retorted.

"Sometimes the gods are merciful," her father replied.

"The Lannisters are not." He looked to Lyla and her belly- did everyone know of her pregnancy now?- and turned away, heading back across the moat to the tower where his brother lay dying.

Lyla looked up at her father. "Perhaps we should listen to Renly..." she said softly. "What if the queen does plot? I'll not have you in trouble or being hurt, father."

"I'll not be hurt, sweet girl. Should Robert die and the gods reap his soul, then I shall be the Hand still- only of a different king."

"King Joffrey." The name was bitter on her tongue. The beast did not deserve a crown or the throne.

"A different king," repeated Ned. His eyes fell to her stomach once more but he looked away again and they resumed their walk back to his chamber.

She kissed his cheek when they arrived and begged him to rethink on Renly's offer. She knew enough of Cersei and had dealt enough with her to know that behind her pretty gold hair and light green eyes she was a fierce lioness, and no good could come of a war between lions and wolves- neither could win. He promised he would think on it, and then she went back to her chamber in the Red Keep, where she would lay in her and Jaime's bed, without a wink of sleep to come, and wait for the bells to ring.

The bells for Robert Baratheon, the king that was slain by a pig.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

It was a dreary day.

Lyla Lannister had been awake for hours, sitting at her window sill and staring out at the ominous hill where she'd found her father just about a month passed. It had been the day she'd found herself with child. It had been the day that Jaime first told her he loved her. It already seemed so long ago.

Reaching a hand up to the glass, she tentatively rested it against the cool window and sighed. Jaime or no, her father was taking her home today, the girls in tow with Lady and Nymeria and every one that had followed them south. King's Landing is no place for the Starks of Winterfell, her father had said to her and her sisters, and she agreed wholeheartedly. The world of endless summer was not a home for winter folk, and it seemed the feeling was mutual for those of the south.

But she couldn't shake the dead pit in her belly. Like she was becoming a widower of sorts, left to tend to her child alone while her husband was gone for who knew how long. Her little boy with dark hair and grey eyes. Hand falling to her stomach, she turned from the glass and sighed, looking around the room. It had been packed since the previous morning, when Robert had been rushed through the halls in front of her rooms, and they were to set sail by midday.

What would Jaime do? She'd found herself wondering just that for quite some time. If he had to choose between his wife and his family, who would he pick? His family, his family, his family. He already has. And his decision hurt her every day. We're his family too, she thought as she rubbed her belly.

There was a soft knock and she bid them enter. "M'lady Lannister," came the voice of one of the northern maids who had followed them down to the capitol. She had all the looks of a winter woman, with deep brown hair and light peppery eyes, and the way she stumbled over the name Lanniser, nearly calling her Stark, only proved it. "Breakfast has been set. The Ladies Stark are awaiting you."

"Very well," Lyla replied, gathering her silver skirts and allowing the woman to lead her from the Red Keep to the Tower of the Hand.

Outside her father's chamber, she heard the clamor of chain mail and ordered the maid to wait there while she peered around the wall. Men in leather and mail and crimson cloaks were making mock warriors with straw. Sandor Clegane was atop a giant dark horse with a choppy mane, galloping across the hard-packed ground and diving an iron-tipped lance through a dummy's head. Canvas ripped and straw exploded as the Lannister men muttered curses under their breath and jested.

How dare they be so jubilant after Robert is so freshly hurt, she thought with a scowl. Robert may not have been great, but he had not been so bad as Aerys. Not nearly so bad.

Continuing on with the maid, Lyla made her way to her father's chamber, where the girls already sat. "Good morn, Arya," she murmured to her smaller sister, running fingers through her hair. "Good morn, Sansa."

The redhead looked up long enough to give a weak "Good morn," before her head fell down again. Her eyes were red-rimmed as though she'd cried all through the night and her nose was pink and raw from rubbing it. Still, she was the prettiest thing Lyla had seen, dressed in a soft green gown that brought out the shine in her hair, bound up in the southern style. Arya left her hair loose, and wore a thin cotton top with breeches and boots.

"Septa Mordane," Lyla called across the room, "Has my father been sent for?" The woman nodded and just then, the door opened.

Dressed in deep ash-grey, her father entered. He looked almost sorrowful as he sat down beside her and ordered the first course to be served. Sansa just sat and stared a her meal while Arya wolfed everything down. Lyla took feather-light bites but otherwise cared little for her food. Her father was the same.

Arya stopped eating just long enough to say, "Syrio says we have time for one last session before we take ship this evening. Can I, Father? All my things are packed."

"A short lesson," he said.

"And make certain you leave yourself time to bathe and change. I want you ready to leave by midday, is that understood?" Added Lyla.

Arya nodded and kissed her and their father on the cheek before scurrying off, calling, "By midday," over her shoulder.

Sansa looked up from her food. "If she can have a dancing lesson, why won't you let me say farewell to Prince Joffrey?"

"I would gladly go with her, Lord Eddard," offered Septa Mordane. "There would be no question of her missing the ship."

Eddard's face grew grimmer. "It would not be wise for you to go to Joffrey right now, Sansa. I'm sorry."

Sansa's already red eyes filled with tears. "But why?"

"Sansa, your lord father knows best," Septa Mordane said. "You are not to question his decisions."

"It's not fair!" Sansa shoved away from the table, stood, knocked over her chair, and ran weeping from the solar.

Lyla rose to go to her sister, her sad, sweet sister, but her father gestured for her to sit again. "Let her go, Lyla. I will try to make her understand when we are all safely back in Winterfell." Lyla pursed her lips and stared off in the direction that Sansa went, but sat, slowly finishing her breakfast.

Nearly an hour later, as the plates were being cleared away and Septa Mordane had gone to show Sansa the gardens one last time, Grand Maester Pycelle came to see her father. His shoulders were slumped over, as if the weight of his maester's chain had become too great a burden to carry around his neck. "My lord," he said, "King Robert is gone. The gods give him rest."

"No," said her father. "He hated rest. The gods give him love and laughter, and the joy of a righteous battle." He looked so strangely empty, void of sadness or particular grief, as though something died within him. She wished he would weep. She wished he could weep. "Be so good as to summon the members of the council here to my solar," he told Pycelle.

"My lord?" The old man blinked in surprise. "Surely the affairs of the kingdom will keep till the morrow, when our grief is not so fresh."

Ned was firm. Quite so. "I fear we must convene at once."

Pycelle bowed. "As the Hand commands." He called his servants and sent them running, then gratefully accepted the chair that Lyla offered him, as well as a cup of sweet beer. "I fear I had nearly not noticed your presence, Lady Lannister. How does the child fare?"

"Well," she replied stiffly. She did not trust the Grand Maester, the fumbling oaf that he was. Perhaps her father did, but she was not so easy to put faith into others.

The man looked up at her again after a while. "And how does your husband fare, Lady Lannister?"

Clenching her fists into tight balls, Lyla fought not to lurch at him and clobber him until he bled from his fingernails. How dare he ask that? Everyone knew Jaime had gone, and she certainly did not need reminding of that. Her father reached over and put a hand over her fist, holding her there, and she forced herself to look away from the maester. She had nothing to say to him.

Silence crept into the room like a serpent, constricting each of them. Until Ser Barristan Selmy arrived. He looked immaculate in his white cloak, the enameled scales of his Kingsguard armor glimmering. "My lords, my lady," he said, "my place is beside the young king now. Pray give me leave to attend him."

"Your place is here, Ser Barristan," her father told him.

Littlefinger walked in next, garbed in sapphire velvets and a silver mockingbird cape. His dark boots were dusty from riding. His eyes held Lyla's, and in her mind his last words to her rang. I only mean to warn you of one thing, my lady. That you are in a dangerous city with dangerous people around you. Life is not a song, here in the game of thrones, and eventually your time will come.

Grey-green eyes watched her, closely at that, and she lifted her chin as his eyes met her belly. Her hands folded over the corset bodice of her gown, embroidered with pristine white stars and moons and small full-bodied wolves, grown tight since she last wore it. It was only when she cleared her throat that Baelish looked back up, turning to her father. "My lords, my lady," he said in his ever charming voice. He then leaned in closer to Eddard. "That little task you set me is accomplished, Lord Eddard."

What little task? Lyla eyed her father with confusion, but could not speak up before Vary arrived in a flourish of lavender, his skin plump and pink from his bath, face scrubbed and freshly powdered. His soft-padded slippers were soundless. He was his own sort of waterdancer. "The little birds sing a grievous song today," he said as he seated himself. "The realm weeps. Shall we begin?"

"When Lord Renly arrives," Lyla said. He was a member of the council, surely they could not start without him?

Varys looked to her with sorrowful eyes. "I fear Lord Renly has left the city."

"Left the city?" Lyla pursed her lips with confusion.

"He took his leave through a postern gate an hour before dawn, accompanied by a squire of Ser Loras Tyrell and some fifty retainers," the eunuch told her. "When last seen, they were galloping south in some haste, no doubt bound for Storm's End or Highgarden in search of the young Ser Loras."

Loras was still missing? Lyla was sure he would have been safe and sound in his home of everlasting spring by now, where the roses were as plentiful as the fruit. "How could this be? I saw Lord Renly only last night."

"Some things are a mystery, Lady Lyla." Varys leaned back in his chair and her father sighed.

"The king called me to his side last night and commanded me to record his final last words. Lord Renly, Grand Maester Pycelle, and my daughter stood witness as Robert sealed the letter, to be opened by the council after his death. Ser Barriastan, if you would be so kind?"

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard examined the paper. "King Robert's seal, unbroken." He opened the letter and read. "Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm, to rule as regent until the heir comes of age."

Lyla inwardly scoffed. Joffrey was of age and needed no help from her father, but she remained silent. She did not trust the ears of Varys, Pycelle, or Baelish, and Ser Barristan was now sworn to the boy king. So rather than speak, she went to her father's side and took his hand as she sat. "I would ask the council to confirm me as Lord Protector, as Robert wished," her father said, eying the members. From Pycelle's half-closed eyes to Littlefinger's lazy half-smile to Varys nervously fluttering his fat fingers. They were all suspicious, and the look on her father's face proved that he knew it.

And then the door opened. Fat Tom stepped into the solar. "Pardon, my lords, my lady, the king's steward insists..."

The royal steward entered and bowed. "Esteemed lords, the king demands the immediate presence of his small council in the throne room."

"The king is dead," said Eddard. "But we shall go with you nonetheless. Tom, assemble an escort, if you would. And take Lyla to her chambers."

The steward eyed her for a moment. "Her Grace, Queen Cersei, has requested Lady Lyla's presence as well," he said in a low voice.

Lyla blinked, wide-eyed. There was no reason for the queen to see her. She looked to her father, but he seemed scattered, eyes dark. "I'll come," she replied, and Ned's fog drifted away.

"You must attend to the girls," he said, shaking his head. There was something telling in his eyes. "You are far too busy."

"Her Grace commands of my lady's arrival," insisted the steward.

"It would not be wise to refuse the queen's demands," Littlefinger added quietly to her father, all eyes falling on Lyla.

She brushed her hair behind her shoulders and held her chin high, holding her arm out to her father for support and praying to the old gods and new that the direwolves were safe with Carinya and the girls were safe with Syrio and Septa Mordane. No good could come from this.

She helped her father down the steps, lending her arm to him. The rest of the small council followed closely behind. A double column of men-at-arms in chainmail and steel helms was waiting outside the tower, eight strong. Grey cloaks snapped in the wing as the guardsmen marched them across the yard. There was no Lannister crimson to be seen, but there were plenty of gold cloaks visible on the ramparts and at the gates.

It was Janos Slynt who met them at the door to the throne room, armored in ornate black-and-gold plate, with a high-crested helm under one arm. The Commander bowed stiffly, and Lyla could sense something was amiss with the man by the glimmer in his eyes. His men pushed open the great oaken doors, twenty feet tall and banded with bronze.

The royal steward led them in. "All hail His Grace, Joffrey of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," he sang.

It was a long walk to the far end of the hall, where the boy waited atop the Iron Throne, and Lyla supported her father heavily, going slowly across the distance to the one who proclaimed himself a king. The others followed. The first time her father had come this way, he was on horseback with a sword in his hand, and the Targaryen dragons had watched from the walls as he forced Jaime Lannister down from the throne. Her own husband. She wondered if Joffrey would step down so easily.

Five knights of the Kingsguard- all but Jaime and Ser Barristan- were arrayed in a crescent around the base of the throne. They were all in full armor, enameled steel from helm to heel, long pale cloaks over their shoulders, shining white shields strapped to their left arms. Cersei and the prince and princess stood behind Ser Boros and Ser Meryn. She wore a gown of sea-green silk, trimmed with Myrish lace as pale as foam. On her finger was a golden ring with an emerald the size of a pigeon's egg, on her head a matching tiara.

Above all, Price Joffrey sat amidst the barbs and spikes in a cloth-of-gold doublet and a red satin cape. Sandor Clegane was stationed at the foot of the throne's steep narrow stair. He wore mail and soot-grey plate and his snarling dogs-head helm. His daunting grey eyes mocked her, like he was inwardly laughing at the situation that had befallen her. I wish I'd killed him with that sword on the kingsroad, when I had the chance, she thought bitterly, clenching her fists.

Behind the throne, twenty Lannister guardsmen waited with longswords hanging from their belts. Crimson cloaks draped their shoulders and steel lions crested their helms. They all stared at her, knowing exactly who she was. All along the walls, in front of the hunting tapestries that Robert had put up during his reign, the gold-cloaked ranks of the City Watch stood stiffly to attention, each man's hand clasped around the haft of an eight-foot-long spear tipped in black iron. They outnumbered the Lannisters five to one.

They stopped when her father patted her arm, and Ned kept a hand on her shoulder to help support his weight.

Joffrey stood. His red satin cape was patterned in gold thread; fifty roaring lions to one side, fifty prancing stags to the other. "I command the council to make all the necessary arrangements for my coronation," the boy demanded. "I wish to be crowned within the fortnight. Today I shall accept oaths of fealty from my loyal councilors."

Her father produced Robert's letter. "Lord Varys, be so kind as to show this to my lady of Lannister."

The man carried the letter to Cersei, and she quickly glanced at the words. "Protector of the Realm," she read. "Is this meant to be your shield, my lord? A piece of paper?" She ripped the letter in half, ripped the halves in quarters, and let the pieces flutter to the floor.

"Those were the king's words," Ser Barristan said, shocked.

"We have a new king now," Cersei Lannister replied. "Lord Eddard, when last we spoke, you gave me some counsel. Allow me to return the courtesy. Bend the knee, my lord. Bend the knee and swear fealty to my son, and we shall allow you to step down as Hand and live out your days in the grey waste you call home, your daughter free of her marriage to my brother and her child named a Snow."

"Would that I could," Ned said grimly. Lyla held her father's arm back, shaking her head. They had a chance to go home safely. They had a chance to be free of the capitol and all of its troubles, and she could raise her babe without any pain from being the wife that Jaime Lannister left behind. She could be a Stark again. But her father took no care for it. "Your son has no claim to the throne he sits. Lord Stannis is Robert's true heir."

"Liar!" Joffrey screamed, red-faced, blood boiling.

"Mother, what does he mean?" Princess Myrcella asked the queen plaintively. "Isn't Joff the king now?"

Lyla looked up at Eddard with wide eyes. Cersei's children were not Robert's? Who sired them, then, if not the king? Her heart thundered, blood racing, and she stared at each of the royals. Gold hair and green eyes, all of them. But Robert was black of hair, with eyes like the sea. She stared harder. Tommen's nose, Myrcella's waves, all of their ears. They weren't like Cersei, they were like Jaime.

She felt sick, and her eyelids grew heavy, forcing her to look down. It can't be. There is no way. But it would explain why Cersei hated her more than anything, why Jaime had been so reluctant to see the children and take them back to Casterly Rock. No, she told herself, it's not true. But the look in her father's eyes when she looked back up... it was too much for her to bear.

"You condemn yourself with your own mouth, Lord Stark," said Cersei. "Ser Barristan, seize this traitor. Ser Meryn, take his daughter."

The Lord commander of the Kingsguard hesitated, but Ser Meryn did not, and in the blink of an eye they were both surrounded by Stark guardsmen, bare steel in their mailed fists.

"And now the treason moves from words to deeds," Cersei said. "Do you think Ser Barristan stands alone, my lord?" There was an ominous rasp of metal on metal, and the Hound drew his longsword. The knights of the Kingsguard and twenty Lannister guardsmen in crimson cloaks moved to support him.

"Kill him!" the boy king screamed down from atop the Iron Throne. "Kill all of them, I command it!"

Ned pushed Lyla behind him, and she reached around his waist and ripped his sword from its sheath, baring it. "You leave me no choice," Ned told Cersei. "Commander, take the queen and her children into custody. Do them no harm, but escort them back to the royal apartments and keep them there, under guard."

"Men of the Watch!" Janos Slynt shouted, donning his helm. A hundred gold cloaks leveled their spears and closed.

"I want no bloodshed," Ned told the queen. "Tell your men to lay down their swords, and no one need-"

With a single sharp thrust, the nearest gold cloak drove his spear into Tomard's back. Fat Tom's blade dropped from nerveless fingers as the wet red point burst out through his ribs, piercing leather and mail. He was dead before his sword hit the floor.

Lyla screamed and Ned's shout came all too late as Janos himself slashed open Varly's throat. Cayn whirled, steel flashing, and drove back the nearest spearman with a flurry of blows. For an instant it looked as though he might cut his way free, but then the Hound was on him. Lyla called to him, warning him, but the dog's sword slashed before her voice could be heard, taking off Cayn's sword hand at the wrist. The second drove him to his knees and opened him from shoulder to breastbone.

The northmen died all around them and Lyla was pulled away from her father, kicking and screaming. "No! Let me go!" She cried, trying to thrust the sword she'd grabbed at the men who held an arm each, but the sword was kicked from her hand and she cringed as it twisted at the wrist.

"The tansy tea, please," called Cersei, voice level. Her eyes were right on Lyla's, and there was such a fury and utter joy in them that it made bile rise in her throat. "We shall not have this little bastard ruining the Lannister name."

A maid rushed forward with a teapot of sloshing liquid and Lyla cried out for her father, for anyone that could help her, but it was too late, and all she could do was try and keep her throat passage closed as the spearmen forced her mouth open for the hot tea.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

Everything was a blur, it all happened so fast. Ser Barristan rushed to her aid but was held off by all sorts of guards in colored cloaks. Her father screamed for her, calling for the madness to end. The light began to fade and Lyla's will to hold her throat passage closed was failing her. She felt some tea trickle down to the pit of her belly and tears were anew down her cheeks.

And then the cry of a man bellowed through the hall, voice strong and taught as a bow. "By the will of Lord Tywin of Lannister and that of the Seven Gods, you will release the lady!"

The maid pouring the tansy tea stopped to look at the man, and Lyla took the opportunity to kick the girl to the floor and immediately vomited up the contents in her stomach. It sprayed onto the girl's roughspun gown and the guards armor.

"Contain her!" King Joffrey screamed violently, face red as velvet cloth. "Kill her, kill her!"

Cersei's eyes burned like wildfire. "By what decree do you interrupt this court!" She pushed Myrcella behind her and sneered at Lyla. "Take the whore hostage and send her traitor father to the black cells!Now! Pay no heed to this man!"

"By the decree of your lord father," the knight clad in gold replied, "the Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock."

"Lord Tywin has no power in the king's court, fool. Take him away!" Joffrey waved off the knight and resumed his intense hooting for the death of Lyla, there, on the cobble ground. She felt more vomit arise.

"A moment, pray you, Your Grace," Lord Varys said in his soft voice, appealing to Cersei. "Mayhaps disregarding Lord Tywin is not the best decision. Should we be in need of his help he may remember this moment."

Cersei raised a brow. "You think my lord father would defy the wishes of his grandson the king and daughter the queen for this harlot?"

"Perhaps he would for his heir." Varys clasped his hands behind his waist and eyed Lyla conspicuously. The heir I carry, she thought as one of the guards yanked her back.

Joffrey looked to his mother for the truth of it and she pursed her lips. It was then that suspicion clouded Lyla. Why would Tywin send for her now? Was it to be only her, or her father as well? The girls? Did Jaime know?

Whispers gathered around the throne and Joffrey raised his head high. "Take the girl," he said simply. "And relay my grandfather a message. We will be in need of a new Hand. His service to the crown in order for his heir."

The knight nodded and threw the letter written by Lord Tywin at the nearest guard to be taken to Cersei. When it reached her she laughed lightly before a somberness hardened her features. "Take her before the kindness of the king is taken back. In its place will be your head."

Lyla whipped her head to her father, who watched her with pale, weeping eyes. "Father, father!" she cried to him. He reached for her and she him, their fingers barely gracing before she was dragged away by the knight of gold. "No, please," she screamed, "you must! My father! My father!"

"Hush Lyla," the knight whispered once they were far enough away. "Be quiet now, you're okay."

The voice seemed familiarly gentle now and with a quivering hand she lifted his visor. "Loras!" His lazy brown curls covered his eyes and he had blood spatter on his lips and cheeks. "Heavens Loras, get my father! You must get my father!"

"Bloody hells Lyla, quiet now!" He dropped her and grabbed her mouth. "I cannot get your father. It was luck that I could get you. Hurry now and onto the horse. We are headed for Highgarden." He flipped his visor back down.

"I will not leave without my father, not without him or the girls or Nymeria or Lady! I refuse. I thought you cared for my family, after all we've been through, Loras." she fumed, turning and running.

A gloved hand caught her and she nearly fell to the ground before she was forced up and thrown onto her stallion. It was Morrow, her lovely blue roan. The only familiar thing left to her now. Even Loras was different. "Please, my lady, listen to him." It was Addam Marbrand who spoke, wiping vomit from her gown.

"Addam? Where are the girls? Please tell me they are safe."

"I cannot, my lady. I am sorry."

"Lyla there is no time for this, we must not dally. Our lives hang in the moment." Loras whipped his horse around and with Loras' mare Morrow swept away- the reins were connected by leather straps. She could not escape unless by foot, and he would catch her every time.

"Addam! Watch after the girls! Find them! Save my father, please help him!" Lyla has tears in her eyes as she worked to grip the reins tighter. "Please, Addam!"

He waved them farewell and they galloped through the gates with haste, headed toward the home of the Tyrells, where Renly would be, with Margaery and Willas. But all she could think of was her father, her sisters, and her babe. How the gods made jest of her life, she thought bitterly as they rode on, tears dragging the scene around her into a fuzz.

To Lyla, there were no gods anymore.

They'd been ridding for nearly two nights before Lyla nearly fell from her horse in exhaustion and Loras made camp.

She curled up in her soiled garb by the fire that slowly dwindled and cried quietly after they'd eaten stale bread and cheese. Morrow whinnied behind her and the wind threatened the kill the flames. Loras was very still, sitting by the creek. In the moonlight he still looked like the Loras she knew as a girl, with his curls and pale gold skin, but she knew once daylight struck he would have that look of hatred again, the look that was made to kill. That was not the Loras she knew and loved. She left him be until he made his way back to the fire.

Her sobbing had slowed as the fire grew. Nightwings chirped ominous tunes and the stars weren't visible through the heavy clouds. Only the moon that shone through the thickness.

"I had to kill for you." Loras' words cut the silence that emanated their camp. "Jaime was taken by his father's men and he sent me away with Jory and the others. We were almost there when the gold knights were on us. They were after you, to take you to Casterly Rock. By force. I killed them all and took their armor to save you. They got Jory. The Lannister men all left. I killed to save your life."

The story unfolded like petals on a rose and Lyla sat upright, slowly, and held her growing stomach. "Loras..."

"I came back for you," he said darkly. "I was too late." His eyes fell to her belly. "The tea..."

"I drank so little, and threw it all back up... The chances of it working are so slim, Loras..."

"I will see that the maester attends you. We will be in Highgarden in a few weeks time, hopefully the babe will hang on till then."

Lyla nodded and there was a long stretch of silence. Uncomfortable yet comfortable. The contradiction was strange. She shivered.

"Get rest," Loras ordered. "I will wake you at dawn and we will ride once more. We cannot break for long at a time."

She nodded once more and laid back down, rolling onto her side. "Thank you," she whispered in the quiet of the night. "I know you risked everything for me, Loras."

"You would do the same," was his only reply he gave, and the sound of the forest over took them once more. This time, for good.

The weeks dragged on until finally they were atop the hill beside Highgarden.

Lyla could see tents of yellow and black peppering the gardens and she raised a brow, looking to Loras. He only kicked into his steed and they galloped towards civilization.

The gates parted for them like waves and outside the steps to Highgarden stood Margaery and Lord Mace Tyrell. They both were wide-eyed and weeping, young Margaery running and leaping at her brother.

"Oh Loras," she cried into his breastplate. "They thought we had lost you, but I told them, I told them there was no way."

He rubbed her back and set her down gently, saying, "in good time, sister, we will speak of this. Not now." He raised his eyes to his father. "A medic, send for Maester Lomys!"

Mace looked at him questioningly, but when Lyla ungracefully dropped from Morrow and nearly fell to the ground in her weakness, he gave a nod of understanding. Loras lifted her and Margaery held her hand. "My dear friend, my poor darling, Lyla."

She was carried to the room she's stayed in as a girl, with a balcony that faced the lazy river, and placed on the wispy white sheets. The mattress felt like a cloud around her, but she felt impure on the crisp white bedding, grungy and dirty and sick as she was. She'd caught fever on the final week of their trip and the chills overtook her as she leaned over the edge of the bed and wretched.

She reached out for Margaery, her beautiful friend with bright brown eyes and lovely chestnut curls that fell like a waterfall to her shoulders. "Margaery," she croaked out before she threw up once more. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be a fool." Margaery held her hair back and tied it with a velvet string so it would stay while she cooled the back of her neck with a cold cloth. "You're going to be just fine, sweetling, just fine. Breathe, good. No, stay awake, Lyla, please!"

But the strength was failing her, her lids grew heavier by the second. "Margaery, I can't, I can't." The darkness consumed her slowly, from her toes to her fingertips until it leaked into her mind and the last thing she remembered was the sound of Willas Tyrell screaming her name.

The unchanging place between asleep and awake was where Lyla stayed for days or weeks or months. It was bitter and it was tormenting; made of fire and blood and tears. She felt herself slipping away from the world. Perhaps that was what was best. She had failed as a daughter to both of her parents, and as a sibling to her brothers and sisters.

She couldn't remember her mother's face anymore, and the locket she had been given by Jaime had been left in King's Landing. She missed the woman that had caused her so much pain after Bran's fall, regardless of it. She was grieving, we all were. Her kind, sweet mother that brushed her long ratted curls and sang to her ever so gently. They might have fought, but what was a family without fights?

Her father's wet grey eyes were engraved in her mind, and her sisters, so eager to leave her that morning. She hadn't been able to say goodbye to either of them. She hadn't been able to give them one last hug and kiss, to tell them she loved them. And the boys! Robb, Jon, Theon, Bran, and Rickon. They were her anchors, her best of friends. She wished to go back to the days when she and her brothers would sit beneath the silverleaf trees and eat peaches.

And then there was Jaime.

How simple her life had been before the death of Jon Arryn. How easy and carefree she had been, how reckless. Everything changed when she met Jaime. Her life had become harder, challenged, but was it so bad a thing? She became stronger, older in some ways, brighter. He brought out in her what she never thought she had. He had loved her. She had loved him.

But that was all over, wasn't it? She could feel herself falling into death, both feet in the grave. Was it worth fighting anymore? She was so tired of it. So tired of having to stay strong, of having to bear all and gain nothing. Her body was exhausted, her mind even worse. Even if she fought, would life be worth it without her family and without Jaime?

Yes, a voice whispered inside her. For your baby, you must stay strong for your baby.

She had forgotten her child. The one still swollen in her belly. The poor darling, not even born before it was taken from the world, dead before it's time- just as Lyanna Stark had been. Mayhaps death ran through the Stark veins.

You've gone mad, the voice screamed, absolutely mad!

Had she? Had she? Lyla felt more sane in the abyss of death than she had in months.

The fight was over now. She felt as the finality of it all crashed down on her, accepted her death and the loss of her life and any purity in it- but then she felt something else.

Pressure on her belly, from the inside, tickling like feathers but pressing. It was like nothing she'd ever felt before. It was the kicking of her babe. Her babe was alive!

Lyla woke, for the first time since her arrival in Highgarden, violently and out of breath, crying and laughing and brilliantly unhinged as she curled around her stomach and felt the little pushes against her, her baby, her reason for existence. My babe, she thought as she sobbed and numerous people came to her aid, my babe is alive.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

Jaime stormed into his father's chamber in the keep they stayed at as soon as he'd received the summons. "You have news of her?" he asked with venom in his eyes. It had been months since he had news of his wife, and Tywin had decided to keep it from him for how many weeks now?

"Sit down before you over exert yourself and are useless to me." Tywin looked up at his son with pale green eyes, calculated and calm. He didn't sit, and Tywin shrugged. "It matters not to me if you hear what has happened, Jaime. I have already made the plans."

He considered it for barely a second before he sat down in the chair before his father's desk. He needed to know if Lyla was okay. He needed to know how she was, if the babe was okay. "Tell me," he insisted, grinding his teeth.

Tywin breathed heavily and then slid the parchment over to Jaime.

The more he read the more his chest swelled with mixed anger and pain. "Lord Eddard Stark has been taken hostage? As well as his daughters.. Lyla not among them? Is this a sick joke? What of the thrice damned envoys you sent for her?" His fury was hardly contained as he threw his golden shield against the wall, over and over.

"The envoys were intercepted. We have no idea of her whereabouts. I have scouts searching every corner of the westerlands."

"Find her!" Jaime roared as loud as a lion, throwing the shield one more time before he collapsed to the floor. Gods help him not to slay each and every man and woman in the seven kingdoms til he found her.

"There is more, Jaime." Tywin slipped another letter across the desk.

After reading it four times over, Jaime couldn't stop the tears from coming. "Tansy tea? They forced her to drink mothers tea?" He picked up his chair and broke it against the floor in his rage. "What in thefucking hells is going on down there? How did they lose her? Who the fuck took her from King's Landing if not the gods damned envoys?"

All Jaime could see was red as he burst through the door of his father's solar and rushed down the steps. Rose was waiting for him, and whimpered when he passed.

The direwolf was large enough to ride, nearly, almost as tall as he finest horse, and if she weren't so thin he would mount her now and take off searching for her, but he would break her back if he did.

Instead, Jaime threw himself atop of his white courser and took off running. He didn't know where he was going, but it had to be somewhere... somewhere other than here.

He didn't stop riding until he reached a river and he was thrown from his horse. In his rage, Jaime slashed the horse with his golden sword and it fell lifeless to the ground.

He'd lost control of his life. His wife was missing, his child within her murdered at the hands of his own sister, hands that used to calm him and touch him so sweetly. He grimaced. He had been a fool of a boy in love with promises that Cersei never kept.

Jaime rose and kicked stones into the river, smacked his sword into the nearby tree, anything he could to release the anger until he fell down crying on the forest floor.

He could almost see her, fighting the tea as it worked its way down her throat. Oh how betrayed she must feel because of him. I never should have left her, he thought dully. None of this would have happened.

Hours passed and the sun set, the world turning into a black ball of nothing. Nothing, that is what Jaime felt. His heart was broken, his mind blank. He stared emotionless at the stars until the guards of Lannister came to his aid and rushed him onto a new horse, taking him back to his father's camp.

He had nothing left to give or live for.

Days blurred by and while Tywin had commanded Jaime return to himself and set him off to control and army of fifteen thousand against Robb Stark's forces, he had no heart left in him to see it out.

He stayed in his tent most days, and barely ate. His armor was growing loose, and his squire tried desperately to fix it to him when the alarms rose.

"What's happening?" he asked the sandy haired squire. "Is it a drill?"

He shook his head, "I don't know my lord."

"Don your leathers and fetch my sword," he commanded.

There was a faint sound of steel clashing, and Jaime knew what was happening. He whistled for Rose and took to his new mount, grabbing his sword from his squire as he rode off. They were being Stark men, Jaime thought painfully. He only hoped he would not have to see his wife's king brother, and look into the same eyes he missed so much. He could not show his weakness, lest he be defeated.

His strength had slowly been returning to him after the first week of Lyla's disappearance. She was still out there, he realized, and if someone cared enough to take her in the first place, and risk the wrath of Tywin Lannister himself, they would be sane enough to keep her alive and well.

Horns sounded across the field and Jaime tore through the grass with vigor. Men dressed in boiled leathers and chainmail ran at him and he cut them all down. An arrow was shot at him and graced his forehead, blood blurring his vision. Rose dashed at the man with fangs bared, ripping him to pieces.

His horse was shot down and Jaime jumped from the saddle to the ground, sliding over dead bodies. The stench of blood and shit was in the air, and he stabbed at two men, watching with dark eyes as they dropped lifeless to the earth below.

Rose ran up to his side, and she was about to launch at a tall grey horse when it whipped around and a pair of burning blue eyes scanned over Jaime. It was Robb Stark.

"Kingslayer!" screamed the Stark boy, and all around him stopped and looked up. Jaime held his ground.

Two boys came at him with longswords and he and Rose quickly put an end to their ideas of killing him. But then there were at least ten swords at his throat, and he knew he had no chance. He looked to Rose, but she was busy sniffing at her littermate, the large grey wolf that had padded alongside its master.

"Take him," the redhead commanded his men, spitting in his direction. The men called him vermin and filth and unworthy, and chained him in irons. Rose whimpered and nudged him, and when Robb Stark called for her to follow he and the grey wolf, she growled.

"She does not know you," Jaime commented. "She will not follow you."

"And she'd follow you?"

"She does."

They stared at each other for long, blue burning into green. Jaime could cry, seeing the very same eyes he had so greatly admired in his wife. Lyla.

"Keep him quiet," Stark ordered the men. A bloody cloth was stuffed into his mouth and tied around his head. "Take him to the cell."

Jaime spit out the cloth. "Your sister," he called out to the northerner. "I tried to keep her safe. I tried to keep your whole family safe. I am not what you think I am." It was a last stitch effort to save himself. He couldn't be murdered without seeing Lyla one last time.

Robb Stark sneered, and something in his eyes flared just as Lyla's might have. "Tried to keep them safe? One sister is missing and the others prisoners. My father-" he stopped himself, brushing himself off. He was unhurt, but his shield was destroyed. "I won't kill you," Robb said darkly. "But I promise whatever comes of my family, the same will be of yours. To the cell!"

Jaime was dragged off to the Stark camp, blood and sweat and tears soaking him as he thought of his wife, and the life they would never have the chance to share.

Fathoms away, a certain lady of Lannister was being bathed.

The maids had scrubbed her down with steaming water and white sand, scenting it with rose oil. Her hair had been washed and brushed until it lay in thick curls down her back and her tarnished gown was sent away and a new, fresh one was sent in. It was made of fine green samite with golden lace and golden roses for buttons down the back.

She was dressed with nimble fingers and soft slippers were placed on her dainty feet. They fed her bowls of broth and the maester had assured her the child still lived, though warned her that certain things could happen to her babe, that even the smallest amount of tansy tea is enough to cause damage. But she didn't care, so long as her baby lived. She would love it regardless.

Margaery came to see her after the sun was already high in the sky, and Loras was following suit. Each were washed and had donned soft summer clothes. "Sweet Lyla," Margaery said with a kind smile, "you look radiant."

"I feel much better," Lyla admitted, rubbing her belly. It had grown large since she'd first discovered her pregnancy, and was quite pronounced against her small frame.

Loras leaned against the door frame. "We have word from the Riverlands, where your brother takes camp. Your mother, Catelyn, will be riding to treat with Renly."

"My brother's taken camp? For what? Treat with Renly? I don't understand." She rose, but Margaery sat her down and pressed a gentle hand to her belly.

"Please, for the sake of your health and the babe's, remain calm," she said.

"Robb Stark has started a rebellion, they have been making preparations for war, Lyla. Do you really know none of this?" Loras raised a brow in suspicion.

Lyla shook her head. "My father shared little with me. Why has Robb begun such a thing?" Her mind was racing. What had happened in the last moon that she was been on the road and abed with fever?

"Your brother took arms against the throne when they took your father and sisters hostage as traitors."

She was shivering as the cold realization washed over her. "My brother... is at war. My father..."

"Your father," Margaery said, "is a good man. I am positive that they will release him to take the Black."

"The Black? No. My father must return to Winterfell, he is the Warden of the North, he -"

"Don't excite yourself," Willas said smoothly as he entered the room, cane in hand. "Brother, sister, perhaps I should speak to our guest?"

Margaerys nodded and took Loras by the hand. "We will come see you again later," said her close friend as she closed the door behind her. Then it was just Willas and Lyla alone.

She had not seen him since her childhood, when they were to be betrothed, and so much had changed. A part of her longed to run to him and seek comfort in his warm arms as she used to, but the other part wished to put childish longing aside. She was a girl no more, married and carrying her husband's heir.

"Forgive me, but I cannot rise to greet you," she said lightly. "I am told my condition is rather fragile right now."

Willas nodded. "I would not ask such a trivial thing of you. Water?" She shook her head and he poured himself a glass.

"Willas," she said quietly, "will you be frank?"

There was a long pause as he finished his water. Thought clouded his eyes. "There is much you need to know," he said.

"So tell me, please."

He took a seat beside her. "What Loras told you is true. Young Robb Stark has begun a rebellion against the crown and orders the release of your lord father and your sisters. The direwolves were captured, only one was killed before they lost the other. And your brother, Bran, has awoken from his coma."

Lyla pursed her lips. Bran.

Willas went on. "Renly came here after Robert's death and your father's refusal to help him. He has claimed the throne and declared himself king. Your mother is coming to treat with him, by your brother's command."

"Do my brother or mother know I'm here?" How sweet it would be to see her family.

He shook his head. "The westerlands are a mess of search parties. They believe you to be captured by Stannis to be used as a pawn. He has made no claim the the throne." There was silence for a long, reeling moment, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a low whisper. "There are rumors of your husband and the queen," he said carefully, "and of the legitimacy of the three children she supposedly bore Robert."

Lyla looked up at him with quick, fiery eyes. "I know," she said hotly. She remembered the connection she'd made in the throne room of the Red Keep, the way her father's wary eyes lingered on her, why, she'd even had Robert's bastard twins as maids, with their black hair and blue eyes. It was clear to her now, but for as much as she hated Jaime for it, as much as she wanted to run to him and trash him down with her fists and scream and hit and kick him for his wrongdoings to her and to the whole realm, she remained calm. If she cried and threw a fit the only one she'd be hurting was the babe, and in turn, herself.

"Lyla, we can keep you here," Willas said, lips pursed. "You can stay in Highgarden until the rebellion is over, maybe even after. We could make you happy here." She knew he meant that he could make her happy. And she knew he could.

A sort of bubbling anger rose in her. Why shouldn't she be happy? Jaime wasn't here, and was hardly a husband now. They hadn't even spoken in months, and perhaps an annulment was in the works. Besides, he loved his sister more, he probably wouldn't even care if she...

Lyla stood and made her way to Willas, who embraced her warmly and leaned in for a hug, but her lips were searching for his, and found their mark. It felt strange and different. Willas' lips were thinner than Jaime's, and his beard, though trimmed, was scratchy on her face. He moaned in need and pushed her onto her bed, which had been cleaned and the sheets washed, and she could barely stand it, the tense pressure building up. When he went to touch her, down there between her legs, she whispered, "Jaime," and everything stopped.

He stood and promptly left the room with as much dignity as he could muster, and Lyla began to weep. How dare she seek comfort in another man. For as much as she hated Jaime, venomously and violently, she also loved him more than anything or anyone.

The babe began kicking and Lyla curled up and wrapped the furs around her, kicking off her slippers. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she felt as though she betrayed them both. The kicks became more persistent and she cried all the harder. Her bump had swelled so heavily and she felt ungainly as she rolled over and wiped tears from her eyes. By the end of it she didn't know if she wept for Robb and her mother, who rode for war, Bran who had finally woken up, Willas who she had lead on, or Jaime, the man she loved that she hated all the same. In truth, she cried for them all.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

She sat below Margaery and Renly, who cheered on the dais. They were the self-proclaimed king and queen of Westeros and looked the part. Margaery was wearing a long, silken blue-green gown with her pretty chestnut curls pushed behind her shoulders. Renly was dashing in a doublet of black with sapphire silk lining and a cloak of night around his shoulders. They were a beautiful couple, but beauty could not rule a kingdom. Renly was a third son with little knowledge on ruling, and behind Joffrey and Tommen he would still be second in line for the throne.

But Joffrey and Tommen were not truly Baratheons at all, and had no claim to the Iron Throne. It was Stannis who was the rightful king, and she feared the wrath of the man who brooded so quietly on Dragonstone.

"Lyla?" Margaery grabbed her hand and looked down on her with concern. "Shall I fetch the maester?"

She shook her head and offered a blank. "I'm fine."

In truth she was far from fine. Though Highgarden had been kind to her, she couldn't shake the thoughts that festered in her mind. She prayed for the safety of her family in King's Landing and spited herself for not finding a way to take them with her. She prayed for Robb's senses to return to him and for the north to retreat. She prayed for her brother, Bran, and for the wolf that was murdered in the capitol.

The two men that were sparring in front of the dais had finished their battle by now, Loras being the victor. He grinned up at Renly and Margaery called his name in excitement.

She thought another challenger would step up and battle the knight, but when no one did, she turned back to her brooding. Until a loud, strained voice called through the crowd.

The figure was tall and brutish, a helm covering the face of the blue challenger. "I challenge Ser Loras Tyrell," the man said.

Renly, or King Renly rather, grinned. He enjoyed seeing his lover sweat. "Very well," he said in a bright voice. "Fight!"

The blue knight charged into it. The stallions slammed together, the blunted axehead smashed against the scarred blue breastplate... but somehow the blue knight had the haft locked between steel gauntleted fingers. He wrenched it from Loras's hand, and suddenly the two were grappling mount-to-mount, and an instant later they were falling. As their horses pulled apart, they crashed to the ground with bone-jarring force. Loras Tyrell, on the bottom, took the brunt of the impact. The blue knight pulled a long dirk free and flicked open Tyrell's visor. The roar of the crowd grew so loud that Lyla couldn't hear Loras, but bloody lips claimed a yield.

Unsteadily, the blue knight climbed to his feet, and raised the dirk in the direction of Renly, the salute of a champion to his king. Squires dashed onto the field to help the vanquished knight to his feet. Poor Loras looked scorned and unfocused. She held his hand kindly when he walked passed her.

"Approach," Renly called to the champion.

He limped toward the gallery. At close hand, the brilliant blue armor looked rather less splendid; everywhere it showed scars, the dents of mace and warhammer, the long gouges left by swords, chips in the enameled breastplate and helm. His cloak hung in rags. From the way he moved, the man within was no less battered. A few voices hailed him with cries of "Tarth!" and, oddly, "A Beauty! A Beauty!" but most were silent. Including Lyla. She was intrigued by this strange knight in blue. The knight knelt before his king. "Grace," he said, his voice muffled by his dented greathelm.

"You are all your lord father claimed you were." Renly's voice carried over the field. "I've seen Ser Loras unhorsed once or twice... but never quite in that fashion."

"That were no proper unhorsing," complained a drunken archer nearby, a Tyrell rose sewn on his jerkin. "A vile trick, pulling the lad down."

Lyla turned to Ser Garlan, brows furrowed. "Garlan," she said softly, "who is this man? Why do they mislike him so?"

Garlan frowned. "Because he is no man, my lady. That's Brienne of Tarth, daughter to Lord Selwyn the Evenstar."

"Daughter?" Lyla gasped in horror. The woman was ghastly large.

"Brienne the Beauty, they name her... though not to her face, lest they be called upon to defend those words with their bodies."

Renly declared the Lady Brienne of Tarth the victor of the great melee at Bitterbridge, last mounted of one hundred sixteen knights. "As champion, you may ask of me any boon that you desire. If it lies in my power, it is yours."

"Your Grace," Brienne answered, "I ask the honor of a place among your Rainbow Guard. I would be one of your seven, and pledge my life to yours, to go where you go, ride at your side, and keep you safe from all hurt and harm."

"Done," Renly said. "Rise, and remove your helm."

She did as he bid her. And when the greathelm was lifted, Lyla understood Garlan's words. Beauty, they called her... mocking. The hair beneath the visor was a squirrel's nest of dirty straw, and her face... Brienne's eyes were large and very blue, a young girl's eyes, trusting and guiltless, but the rest... her features were broad and coarse, her teeth prominent and crooked, her mouth too wide, her lips so plump they seemed swollen. A thousand freckles speckled her cheeks and brow, and her nose had been broken more than once. Pity filled Lyla's heart.

And yet, when Renly cut away her torn cloak and fastened a rainbow in its place, Brienne of Tarth did not look pitiful. Her smile lit up her face, and her voice was strong and proud as she said, "My life for your, Your Grace. From this day on, I am your shield, I swear it by the old gods and the new." The way she looked at Renly- looked down at him, she was a good hand higher, though Renly was near as tall as his brother had been- was painful to see.

"Your Grace!"

Lyla snapped her head around to the new and unfamiliar voice. The man who spoke was grizzled, with a long grey beard. "I beg your leave." The man went to one knee. "I have the honor to bring you the Lady Catelyn Stark, sent as an envoy by her son Robb, Lord of Winterfell."

"Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, ser." Lyla watched through misted eyes as a red haired woman dismounted and moved to the knight's side. Mother. Lyla rose quickly and went to her mother, but an arm wrapped around her shoulders and she looked up to see Garlan restraining her. She tried to shake free but she couldn't.

Renly looked surprised. "Lady Catelyn? We are most pleased." He turned to his young queen. "Margaery my sweet, this is Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell."

Lyla couldn't take it, she used all her strength and ripped from Garlan's arms, running to her mother at full force. All the bitter pain from how she'd been treated at Wintefell melted away and she could only feel the need to be with her mother than any daughter would have. A blunt force grabbed the back of her gown and Lyla nearly fell on the hard ground. "Name yourself," Brienne of Tarth said, still holding her dress. The tautness of the grip pulled her gown back, her belly now prominent.

"Lyla Stark. That is my mother there. Release me!" The blue knight looked up at Renly first, and only when he nodded did she let her go.

Catelyn looked her up and down, fighting tears. "Lyla," she said quietly, reaching a hand out to touch her daughter's deep brown curls as though she were in a dream. Her strength disintegrated and she let the tears fall, pulling her child into a hard embrace. "I thought you were dead, oh my sweet girl."

"Mother." Lyla gripped Catelyn tight, sobbing. Her stomach was between them, and when her mother pulled away she stared. Lyla wrapped her cloak over herself, covering the child within her.

"How did you escape?" asked her mother, hand still on her shoulder. "How did you get here?"

"Loras saved me." She looked back at her friend and smiled. "He dressed as a Lannister envoy and we rode two weeks to get to Highgarden. I was struck with fever, I almost lost..." she held her hands over her stomach. "Have you gotten news from King's Landing? What's happened? I've been gone so long..."

Her mother's brows pinched together. "You do not know?"

"Know what?" she asked, tilting her head. Her friends of Tyrell had shared very little with her.

"Lyla... your father was murdered by the Lannisters. Sansa is a captive and Arya... is missing." Catelyn was being so strong, but Lyla's world was crashing down on her.

"Murdered... it must be a jest, mother." Her words were choked and she felt weak when her mother shook her head. Father. She could feel his arms around her still, smell the pine of his cloaks. His smile was permeated in her mind. Her stomach churned. She looked to Garlan and Loras, Margaery and Renly. All who had given her any information she might have received in the last few weeks. She looked to Willas and saw the guilt painted in his face. She felt betrayed. "You kept this from me?"

Willas went to her side and tried to console her with a rub on the back, but she shoved him away. He disgusted her. They all disgusted her. Lyla fell to her mother's side and clutched her hand. Her heart was racing. "Your condition is too delicate, Lyla, you were sick for so long..." Willas said softly. "I didn't wish to hurt your child, or you. None of us would risk you."

"You kept me here as a guest, or so I thought. When all along I was a prisoner. You did not wish to risk the heir to House Lannister, so you could use my child as levy in war!" She was making a scene, but the passion of the moment overtook her. Blood rushed to her ears in her anger. "You betrayed me, Willas Tyrell."

Her mother pulled her in and held her as she wept. "Where is Jaime?" she asked meekly. She wanted her husband. She wanted the father of the child within her.

"He is captive in Riverrun." It was Ser Colen who spoke, the bearded man that had announced her mother's arrival.

Lyla pursed her lips and nodded. "Then I shall go," she said. "I must be with him." She had lost too much already.

Lyla packed quickly, the few gowns she'd borrowed from Margaery and some heavy cloaks she'd received from her mother. She could not slow down, lest she begin to think of her father. Her heart ached for home, for Winterfell and the snow and summer drift. She yearned for the life she'd had before Robert Baratheon had come to the north.

Her mother unpacked each and every thing that she put inside her bag. "You are not leaving me again. Last time you left they married you off to a Lannister and you were presumed dead. You will not go."

She is trying to protect me, Lyla thought softly, but I have seen too much, known too much. I must be with him. Jaime was not his past, he was not the one who killed her father or held her sister captive. He did not lose Arya and a direwolf, nor did he kill the other. Jaime was not the scum that her mother thought him to be. She had to believe he wasn't evil. She had to, or else her mind would be lost on her.

"I must go, mother," she told Catelyn gently. "You would have gone for Father."

"Jaime Lannister is not half the man your father was. Jaime Lannister is a cruel, cynical kingslayer. He is not worthy of your loyalty. Of anyone's."

Lyla spun around, anger in her bubbling blue eyes. "Jaime Lannister is my husband, mother. He's the father of my child, and is not what you think he is. The man I married is not the same man that you know him to be. He is truly changed, mother. And I love him."

"Love him?" Lady Catelyn rubbed her thumb over the glass where the portrait of her father rested behind. She snapped back into the present when Lyla grabbed the locket and clasped it around her neck. "No," she said firmly. "He may be sweet to you, child, but I fear for you. He is not so changed as you think. Your brother, Robb, captured him in battle. Battle! Against our family. Against the North."

"He was captured by his father when he went to find Lancel Lannister, who attacked your husband, my father, on the roads of King's Landing. Loras was with him, and told me everything." She held her head high. She would not stand for her mother to tell her about her husband when she knew nothing of him. Of his character. "I'm going."

Lyla kissed her mother and told her she loved her before tossing the bag over her shoulder and leaving. She heard her mother break into fresh tears as she left the chamber, but she could not look back. If I look back I will stay. If I look back I will lose my opportunity.

She made it to the stables without being noticed and pulled Morrow from his designated stall, saddling him. She was about to mount when she heard a rustling in the straw.

"Come out," she dared the shadow behind the hay bales.

Out from the stables came Willas Tyrell, hobbling on his cane. He was so beautiful in the moonlight, golden-brown curls softened to a silver cast. His eyes glowed like candles. A beautiful fool, she thought, a beautiful lie. "I know I'm the last person you want to see," he said softly. "But I need to speak to you."

"I can't. I'm headed to Riverrun, where my brother is."

"Where your lover is."

They stood, staring at each other with a bitterness between them. It was Lyla who spoke first. "You would keep my father's death from me so that my child's life would not be risked, so you could use it as a plaything in your damned war. You betrayed me, Willas. I had loved you once, when we were only children... That kiss... I meant it. I had feelings for you still, but now..."

Willas grabbed her arm, tears in his gods damned eyes. "Lyla, I love you. I have loved you and love you still and I never wanted to keep it from you. Please, stay with me, allow me to love you like you should be loved. Let me father this child like it should be fathered-"

A hard smack on his cheek shut him up enough for Lyla to climb atop her horse and kick into its side, riding off. Tears glittered in her eyes, and she dared not look back at the man who betrayed her trust and dared say he loved her after it.

She rode for hours, and the hours turned into days. She only ever stopped when she needed to make water or feed Morrow. Otherwise, the trip to Riverrun was quick and felt as endless as swimming out to sea.

Banners of red and blue with silver trout glinted in the sunlight, finally, as it had been nearly two weeks passed from when she'd ridden off from Bitterbridge. She hadn't changed her gown in days and hadn't eaten in less. The men recognized her immediately; Lyla had visited Riverrun on her way to and from Highgarden as a girl. They tied Morrow to their saddles and one lifted her onto his horse, for she had nearly fallen from the saddle on her own.

When they reached the gates, Robb was waiting for them.

Lyla stared at her brother in disbelief. He looked so tall and fierce. His blue eyes twitched when they fell on her, his red curls tousled and restless. His crown looked so heavy.

She was set on the ground and his eyes fell from her gaunt face to her stomach, grown to the size that her mother's had been when Rickon was born. "Robb," she said quietly, tears in her eyes. "Baby brother. You never wrote me."

He sped to her and held her tight. "Lyla, I thought you were dead. They said Stannis Baratheon had taken you, and that you'd caught fever at Dragonstone and died."

"I was taken to Highgarden by Loras Tyrell," she said. "He saved me. I was in the throne room with father when we were seized... I tried to take him with me, Robb, I truly did, but I couldn't... it happened so fast..."

Her brother hushed her and she could feel the warmth of him the way she felt it in her father. It gave her strength. "Take my sister to a chamber near to mine. See she is bathed and fed and give her a clean gown," commanded her kingly brother.

"Robb," she said quickly, quietly, "I must see him."

He glowered. Surely he knew she meant Jaime. "No, Lyla. He's my prisoner."

"He's my husband," she pleaded, taking his hand and putting it on her stomach. "Feel, Robb. That's his child in me. Your niece or nephew. They're half Stark, Robb, but half Lannister too. You know I'll find a way if you say no."

He stared at her as hard as the king he was. "You may go once you've been tended to. I will send Theon to accompany you."

She bowed and allowed maids to escort her upstairs, where she was thoroughly scrubbed and washed, her skin pink by the end of it and the water black. She was helped out and patted dry before being dressed in a plain cloth-of-silver gown. She clasped her locket on and slid into thick black boots.

Trays of trout and rice and potatoes were set before her, fattening foods of boar and chicken and some sweet fruit were there as well. She ate and ate until nothing was left. Oh how sweet each bite tasted on her tongue, how savory and delicate. The nectarines made her cry, for how lovely the sweetness was, making her cheeks tingle.

There was a knock on the door when the maids had begun cleaning the mess of her meal and she was brushing through her curls until they bounced fresh and clean. "Come in," she commanded.

It was Theon, dashing in grey and black. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," he said, the happiness at the sight of her barely concealed.

She jumped up and ran to him. She'd missed Theon so much more than she knew. He was the one she went to with her hurts and troubles, and to have been without him killed her. "Oh Theon," she breathed into his fur collar.

He held her back and ran his fingers through her hair. "I thought you were dead. I damn near killed the man who told me first. I wanted to ride off for Dragonstone... Lyla, if you'd died..."

She hugged him tighter and nodded, pulling away and running her hands over the folds of the gown. "I didn't, now did I. I'm here... And so is he. Please, take me to him."

The walk was long and quiet. When they stopped, it was in front of a wooden cell, with shit and mess all along the ground. There was a shell of a man sitting in the back, ragged and dirty. Lyla felt her heart break. "Jaime," she whispered, kneeling in the muck in front of the cell bars. Theon muttered about getting her pretty gown all a mess, but she didn't care.

The man looked up and Lyla could see the ware on his face. He looked older, sadder. Jaime scoffed at her. "Is this a torture method?" He asked Theon lazily. "Get some girl that looks like my dead wife to talk to me? What a sad farce."

Theon glowered, but Lyla hushed him. "Go, Theon, I don't need a guard. My husband won't hurt me." Theon remained a moment, but soon sauntered away angrily. Lyla turned back towards the cage. "Who told you I was dead?"

Jaime rolled his eyes. "You don't have to keep pretending. I know my wife is dead, so run along to your whorehouse and leave me be."

Lyla frowned. He's grown so cold. "My love," she said softly, reaching her arm through the cage. "Look," she commanded. She showed her belly, round and pronounced. "Our child. He kicks for you."

Jaime hesitated, green eyes growing larger by the second. "It cannot be you. You're dead!" He threw a cup full of piss at her. "Leave me you fucking whore!"

"Jaime!" She felt the tears burning her eyes, yellow staining her gown, her curls dripping. "By the gods, snap out of it, I am your wife! Not some thrice damned whore from a pleasurehouse, I am Lyla fucking Lannister!"

Jaime gaped. He stared at her for so long she felt as though they would turn to stone waiting for him to speak. "Wife," he said, voice strained.

She smiled sadly. They've broken my husband, my love. "Come to me, Jaime, I'm here. For true, it's me."

He scrambled to her and grabbed her hand. He stretched his arm out of the cage and cupped her cheek, ran his fingers through her hair and pressed a filthy hand to her belly, leaving a print on her gown. His eyes lingered on the locket and he finally sobbed into the bars, her holding him through them as best as she could. "Lyla," he cried, "wife, my wife."

"My father's dead," she told him. "My sister, Sansa, is held prisoner. Arya is lost. They killed a wolf, one escaped... Loras saved me, he pretended to be a Lannister envoy, he took me before I could save my father."

"They would have killed you," Jaime said, grabbing her curls and pulling her face close. His lips could barely reach hers through the bars, and she could feel splinters on his lips, but nothing had ever felt sweeter than Jaime's touch. She sobbed as he kissed her and grabbed his hand through the bars, holding it to her belly. Jaime melted at the feel of his child within her, kicking fiercely. "Don't leave me," he cried, "please don't leave."

Lyla shook her head with force and kissed him harder. "Never," she promised.


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

He took in the sight of her; pale skin, long brown curls, those soft blue eyes. It couldn't be her. She was dead.

Carefully, Jaime slipped into an indifferent mask and scoffed at the impostor. They could not see his pain, and he could not fall for their tricks. "Is this a torture method?" he asked Theon lazily. "Get some girl that looks like my dead wife to talk to me? What a sad farce."

Greyjoy flushed bright red in anger, but the whore calmed him. "Go, Theon," she said, "I don't need a guard. My husband won't hurt me." She was a quick-witted little actress, Jaime thought as she turned back to face him. "Who told you I was dead?" she asked.

Jaime rolled his eyes. "You don't have to keep pretending. I know my wife is dead, so run along to your whorehouse and leave me be."

The woman frowned, her eyes growing sad. She plays her part well, he admitted. He was almost falling for her tricks. "My love," she said softly. Her arm sneaked its way into the cage, reaching out for him. "Look," she begged. He looked down at her belly. It was fat with child, pronounced against the silver-grey of her gown. Her brown curls tickled the top of the belly. "Our child. He kicks for you."

He felt his eyes widen. She looked so sweet, this woman, so like his wife... but a bitterness crept into him, planted in his heart like a seed of hatred. "It cannot be you. You're dead!" He picked up the first thing that he could find and chucked it at the wooden cage's bars, where the woman knelt at. She looked about to cry when his piss dripped from her fresh curls and stained her gown. He sneered. "Leave me you fucking whore!"

"Jaime!" He looked at her once more. She wiped the piss from her face. She looked hurt, enraged. He saw a spark flash in her icy eyes."By the gods, snap out of it, I am your wife! Not some thrice damned whore from a pleasurehouse, I am Lyla fucking Lannister!"

It was there; the fire that he'd loved so well in her. When she screamed at him, cursed his name, he could see right through his angst. It couldn't be her, he thought, but there she was beside it all. She looked a dream, even through the mud and piss that disheveled her. She was glowing, and her stomach had grown so much. It was barely showing when he had ridden off to capture Lancel, and now she was nearly ready to give birth. He frantically sought to return to the present, his mind lurking on their early months of marriage. "Wife," he choked out, eyes watering.

She smiled that sad, crooked smile that he knew so well, the same that he'd dreamed of while he was imprisoned by his father and by the Starks. "Come to me, Jaime, I'm here. For true, it's me," she said, her voice tender.

Jaime scrambled to her, grabbing her hand. It was so small, so soft. Just like he remembered. He stretched his arm through the cage and held her cheek in his hand, her warmth ticking his skin and making it itch in disbelief. His hand moved to her hair, fingers running through her silken curls and down to her belly. He could feel the flutter of little feet inside her. He felt like weeping. His eye found the dainty silver locket that he'd given to her before their wedding and he knew it couldn't be a farce; he knew that necklace. "Lyla," he croaked out, realizing that he was sobbing. He hadn't said her name in months, and it felt painful as it rolled off his tongue. "Wife, my wife."

"My father's dead," she told him, leaning into his touch. "My sister, Sansa, is held prisoner. Arya is lost. They killed a wolf, one escaped... Loras saved me, he pretended to be a Lannister envoy, he took me before I could save my father."

He shook his head, unable to understand how she could possibly blame herself. "They would have killed you," he said reassuringly, pulling her close. He leaned in to kiss her, his lips barely touching hers, the bars restricting him. His heart felt like it was brought anew. Her touch melted him, it saved him. Her tears rubbed against his cheek and he cried with her. She took his hand and placed it firmly on her belly as the baby kicked away. He couldn't believe that she'd returned to him, that she found him and loved him and wanted his touch. "Don't leave me," he cried. He couldn't be away from her again, not matter what. "Please don't leave."

Lyla shook her head fiercely, kissing him all the harder. "Never," she said.

They stayed like that for what seemed like years, kissing and holding each other's hand, playing with their hair and just making sure it was all real. "My father," Jaime said quietly, "he took me, held me in Casterly Rock like a prisoner. I couldn't leave. I was forced into war with your brother, and now he thinks me some traitor of House Stark. I had no choice, Lyla, I didn't want this." His words came like vomit, and he was unable to stop them. "I would to anything to see you safe," he said firmly. "I did not mean for all of this. I never should have left you alone."

His wife squeezed his hand and shook her head, curls tossing over her shoulder as they swayed. "I know you would never leave me," she said. "You would never leave our baby."

He nodded. "Never. I tried to come home to you, Lyla, I really tried." He sounded like some green boy apologizing for a wrong deed, but he didn't care. He had to tell her, she had to know just how much he wanted to be with her, to save her. "It wasn't long after they put me in this damned cell that your brother came charging at me. He said that the Lannisters had killed your father, that they lost your sister and murdered a direwolf. He told me that Stannis Baratheon had stolen you from the envoys and you'd died on Dragonstone abed with fever."

Lyla frowned, tears spilling at the thought of her father. "When Loras saved me, it took us two weeks to ride to Highgarden. When we finally arrived, I was abed with fever. I almost died... I almost lost the babe. I had to fight for my life, without you." Her words weren't meant to be accusing, but Jaime felt the sting all the same. "I recovered only after two weeks of sleep and feverdreams. Loras told me my father was captive, Margaery said he would take the Black and ride for the Wall. Willas told me about Cersei's children..."

Jaime went cold all over. She knew now. "Those were different times," he began carefully, quietly so no one else could hear.

She lifted his chin until his eyes met hers. He saw the flash of anger and... hate? "It cannot be changed," she said simply, though the situation was far from simple. "I thought I would never see you again," she whispered, her tone changed. It was soft now, her touch delicate as she caressed his cheeks. "In Highgarden, when I was still abed with fever, I almost let go. I thought our babe had died within me."

Jaime studied her pained face, the tears that rolled down her cheeks. "I felt him kick," she said softly. "The only reason I survived is because of it... I felt our child kicking inside me, fighting for its life." She took a deep breath and leaned into the cage bars. "I kissed Willas Tyrell," Lyla confessed, looking up at him. "I was only just better. He promised to keep me, to make it all better... We kissed and I whispered your name."

His heart was split in two. She had kissed Willas Tyrell, she'd almost chosen to stay in Highgarden and let that bloody wilted rose raise their child. But she'd said his name, not Willias's, she'd thought of his lips, of his hands on her. It was nothing compared to his sin against her; his love for his sister and their offspring were worse than a kiss. Jaime cringed at the thought of Joffrey ordering for the head of Ned Stark.

"Lyla, your brother has sent for you." Theon came around the corner and folded his arms, looking at Jaime triumphantly.

She frowned, gripping his hand tighter. "I need more time. Tell Robb that I'll come up within the hour," she said, leaning into the bars of the cage.

"Kings wait for none," reminded the boy, who grabbed Lyla's hand and waltzed her away like she was his wife, rather than Jaime's. She looked over her shoulder at him and he felt anger rising within him at the tear that fell down her cheek. How dare that greenboy take his wife from him? But it was the greenboy holding Lyla's hand, and Jaime was reduced to a pig in a pen. He sunk back into the cage and waited for his wife's return. She could find a way to get him out, to right the wrongs- he hoped, anyways.

Lyla was presented to her brother sobbing.

From the looks of her, she seemed to not have yet bathed. Her gown was covered in mud and shit, and her hair and bodice were stained in piss. "You're disgusting," Robb said with a lighthearted laugh as he shooed away the others that cluttered his chambers. Theon remained, eyeing her from the corner. "I had sent a bath, hadn't I?"

"I did bathe," she replied, her tears slowing. Her feet were sore, but she dared not sit on the plush chairs before her, lest she dirty them. "Robb, I can't stand to see him like that," she told her brother as she stood near the fire, pushing her open palms to the flames. "He's so dirty and thin... he looks sick. I know you hold no love for the Lannisters, but I promise you, brother, my husband had naught to do with our father's death."

Speaking to Robb now was so different than it had been at Winterfell, when they were just children. Whereas once he laughed at everything she said and called her his little wild wolf, he now stared at her with an impassible calculating set of blue eyes. His red curls were weighed down by the crown on his head, as were his shoulders. He slouched now, as he sat in a chair in front of his large, oaken desk. "I can't just let him go, Ly. He's my prisoner, and the only leverage I have against the Lannisters."

"The fucking halfwit went to battle against us, did he tell you that? He could'a killed Robb, not to mention the northmen that he did kill." Theon's words were hostile as he neared her, and she took three steps back, narrowing her eyes at him.

"He's not a halfwit, he's brilliant. And he's loyal to me and our family. Tywin Lannister imprisoned Jaime to use him for his own gain. Robb, when our father was attacked Jaime stayed up day and night for what seemed months with me to make sure he was safe. He had men guard me and our sisters-"

"Then how did Arya escape?!" Robb slammed a fit onto the table. "How is Sansa a prisoner now- how did our father die!"

Lyla was so startled she fell on the floor. "Men can be killed Robb," she said smoothly, "and I'm sure they were killed. As for our father... I grieve for him as much as you. He raised me as much as you. I was just as close with him..." tears began flowing again and soon she was sobbing. "Robb I was there- they killed our men, all of them! I was forced to watch as they held a knife to father's throat and I couldn't do anything about it! They tried to kill my babe, Robb! My child! They held my arms and forced tansy tea down my throat! You think I don't understand what the Lannisters have done? I watched them do it! I felt their sin grabbing my arms and leaving bruises, I felt their sin slide down to my belly and nearly kill my child- your niece or nephew!"

Her brother looked taken aback. "Ly-" he began softer now, but she cut him off, seething.

"My husband is not like those fucking monsters! He was forced against his will to do their bidding, just as Sansa will be. You know what though, Robb? They won't shove Sansa in her own shit and make her piss in a cup. They won't let Sansa catch sick and shiver, starving in a cage." She scoffed and shook her head. "If they find out you're treating Jaime like a swamprat then whose to say they won't treat Sansa the same way? How would you feel if our sister was shoved in a wooden pen, while you sleep in a cushioned bed?"

Robb looked away, guilt creeping into his bones. She could see it as it trickled down his spine, making him shiver. "You can have your husband," he said hesitantly, "but he stays guarded at all times. He may not leave Riverrun, and neither can you."

She went to her brother and he embraced her, regardless of the muck that stained her. "Thank you," she whispered, giving him a teary eyed smile before she took off, running as fast as her aching bones and heavy stomach would allow.

Jaime looked up quickly when he heard his name.

Lyla was waddling as fast as she could to him, her belly robust as the speed of her travel caused her skirts to fly behind her. "Release him," she ordered, slowing and catching her breath. "I have an order from the king to release Jaime Lannister to me," she said firmly when the northmen scoffed at her. They shifted and eyed each other before they looked Lyla up and down once more. She was a pillar of authority and they could taste the irritation that glowed around her, and within seconds Jaime was freed.

He crawled out of the cage and stretched for the first time in over a month. Lyla was looking at him with watery eyes and he sighed in relief that she had freed him. "Jaime," she whispered, at first walking then running to him, and he lifted her into his arms like he'd done so many times before. She wrapped her legs around him and held him close, and he relished in the feel of her; and not through wooden bars. Her tears mixed with his sweat and the muck that caked his body, rolling down his chest.

They made their way through the castle with weary eyes following their every step. Lyla didn't seem to notice, however, for she only held his hand tight and guided him down cold halls. Her bedchamber was near her brothers, he could tell, for there were five men standing guard at the door just three rooms down from hers. "Come in," she beckoned, smiling. "A bath," she ordered the maids that were fluttering to yank her out of her filthy gown. She looked back at Jaime and raised a brow. "Make that two."

The bathwater was brought up promptly, and then they were all alone. He took in the sight of her as she slipped into the steaming tub, watched as she tilted her head back and sighed ever so lightly. He stepped into the tub only after she'd finished scrubbing herself off and was about to get out. He wouldn't risk letting her remain in the water, for it would be black by the end of his time in it. But she didn't get out, she simply made room for him and began scrubbing softly at his skin.

He watched her work, transfixed on the nimbleness of her fingers and the way she double checked each patch of skin before leaving it for another. Clumps of dried dirt sunk to the bottom of the tub and, just as he predicted, the water was black and chunky with dirt and shit by the end of it. She didn't mind, though, and simply called for the second bath.

Jaime had never felt more relieved in his life. His wife was with him again, their child safe, and he was free- or as free as was like to be possible. When the second bath came, Jaime dunked right in, wanting to rid himself of the filth that had piled onto his skin for over a month. He was aided, once again, by his wife. She sat beside the tub this time, having already been washed and now dried. "I'm so sorry that he allowed that," she said quietly, looking up at him from her scrubbing. "I would never have guessed that my brother would have kept you in a cage like a dog."

He reached out a hand and cupped her cheek. "There is nothing that can be done about the past. Just enjoy the moment now, while we're both free." He pulled her in and kissed her passionately. Her hands found his chest, and then his arms, and carefully she worked to pull him from the tub. They slipped and slid all over the room before they settled by the hearth. He was panting, looking down at her. Lyla looked ethereal, her long brown curls splayed around her like a halo, her iceblue eyes glowing, her skin golden in the firelight. He'd never seen anything so beautiful.

She leaned up into him and kissed him hard, pulling him down with her. "I love you," she whispered in his ear as she reached down and guided him into her. "I love you, Jaime."

He groaned as he entered her. He hadn't been inside a woman since he'd left Lyla to find Lancel, all those months ago. Her warmth crashed down on him and he was almost in tears at the feel of her tightness hugging him. He was finally home. "I love you," he whispered back to her as he pumped inside of her, not breaking their kiss. She was the warm embrace he'd dreamed of, the sweet surrender of his fantasies. It only took a moment before her little moans and pants brought him to his climax and he fell to the floor beside her, breathing heavily.

She curled into his body, and he placed a hand on her belly. It was large and round, and though she couldn't have been more than six moons along, she looked about ready to give birth. Her pale skin covered the babe tight, and when Jaime's hand moved to the top of her stomach he could feel the gentle kicks of their child. "He grows anxious to meet you," Lyla said sleepily, and Jaime smiled down at her before lifting her into his arms and placing her in bed.

The coverlets were warm, but Jaime still dressed in a pair of undergarments and a nightshirt. Lyla was sleeping before he had a chance to ask her if she wanted to dress. Carefully, he slipped under the covers with her and held her tight. He had been fighting for months to find her, to see her again. He'd almost lost his head when he found out she was missing, but now he was holding her sleeping form, the babe in her belly kicking butterfly-light kicks. This was worth it, he knew. This, his wife and child in his arms as the firelight slowly burned down, was worth more than anything he could give. And he would fight to keep them; he would never let them go again.


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

The sun was rising over the river, silver fish glinting in the water. There were sparkles of twilight in the air and wind blew gracefully with the tumbling leaves, pale gold and soft green. The riverlands were beautiful, serene. It almost made Lyla forget that the realm was in arms, warring with itself.

She rested on the balcony of Lord Hoster's chamber, hand resting lightly over her belly. The gown she wore cascaded down the end of the bench, blue and green inlays glinting in the fresh sunlight. Jaime had been taken from their chamber as soon as he was dressed, off to treat with Robb, if it could be called treating. He was helping him, telling him where Tywin's camps would be and when, giving him precious information. She took to her grandfather's chamber then, and had been waiting for hours since for him to wake.

It had been years since Lyla had seen her grandfather. He was so strong, so powerful, when she'd last seen him on her way home to Winterfell from the Reach. He'd touched her forehead kindly and kissed her cheek, calling her his little winter maiden. He looked sickly now, and he was very, very ill indeed. It made her heart weep. Her father was already taken from the world, and now her grandfather would be too?

There was a rustling and she turned to see that Lord Hoster Tully was sitting up.

Rising, Lyla was at his side in an instant, taking his hand. Her grandfather was a shell of the man that he was three years ago. Where he was once portly and tough, he was now thin and covered by a white beard. "Good morn," she said quietly, smiling at him.

He smiled as well, his blue eyes brightening. "Minisa," he said, clutching her hand tight, "my Minny. How are the children?"

She raised a brow. He thinks I'm my grandmother, she thought. She'd never met Minisa Tully, seeing as she died before her mother had even married her father, but she was told that she was a goodly lady. Lord Hoster lost a piece of himself with her, they say. "No, grandfather, it's me, Lyla," she corrected him.

"Oh," he said, disheartened. "Lyla, yes, yes of course. Come, child, tell me of your man. Your uncle told me of your marriage to a lion. How has that come to be?"

Whereas only moments before Lord Hoster was delirious and daydreaming of his wife at his side, he was now alert and watching her intently. She inhaled deeply, looking away. "King Robert brokered our marriage. To further tie Houses Stark and Lannister. He released Jaime from his vows to marry me, and about a moon's turn into my stay at the capitol we were wed in the Sept of Baelor. I carry his child within me now, though the queen tried to bring and end to that. I almost lost it..."

Her grandfather wiped away a tear and frowned. "You are so sad, sweet winter maiden of mine," he told her, concerned. "Do you wish an end to your union with the Kingslayer? You do not worship the Seven, you are unlawfully wedded by your gods. An annulment would be easily done by your king brother."

"No," she said hastily, shaking her head. "No, grandfather. I love my husband. I know it's... wrong to all of you. But he is the man who has bedded and wedded me, the father of my child. Whatever he's done in the past, grandfather, I assure you, was made from the conscience of another man. He is loyal to me, he loves me." She remembered when he first said he loved her, when they were alone in the hallway, right after her father's attack. He said it and he meant it.

Hoster Tully looked his granddaughter up and down levelly, in a way that unnerved her. "So much of the wolf's blood in you, Ly, so much resemblance to Brandon and Lyanna. I pray for you child, so that you may have a kinder fate than they two shared."

The words were ice in her blood, and she felt the cool clasp of winter's fingers around her neck, choking her. Would she have a kinder fate? Would she?

The steps down the staircase to the main floor of the castle were daunting, but she descended them anyways. With her pregnancy progressing, Lyla found it harder and harder to maneuver about the keep, her large belly causing her to often lose her balance and lean onto a wall to keep from falling.

She was on her way to the riverbanks, where Robb was with her Uncle Edmure. They'd thankfully called for her soon after her visit with her grandfather, giving her a reason to run from the room. His words had frightened her- but was it because they were simply ominous, or because they rang with truth? She rubbed her belly and pursed her lips. She hoped for her child's sake that it would never be so.

Theon greeted her at the end of the staircase and she froze. She hadn't spoken to Theon since the night he'd confronted her with Robb, and his advance towards her and the hate in his voice had been so alien that she'd simply blocked him from her thoughts. "Lady Lannister," he said casually, holding out an arm. She refused it, however, and feigned to walk at his side, arms around her thickening stomach.

"You've been ignoring me," he pointed out, looking down at her.

She didn't reply, and kept her eyes on the path ahead. This man, this stranger, was not the Theon that she'd been raised with. This new Greyjoy was a man of hard words and a distinct hatred reserved for her and her husband. Because he loved me once, she thought to herself, because he wishes it was his child within me.

In the painful silence, there was a tension that weighed her down and she felt faint until they reached the castle grounds and she could finally breathe. He followed her, far behind now, and she found her way to Robb and Edmure, where they were by the trickling river. The sunlight made their matching auburn hair glint like copper. "Ly," greeted her brother with a smile, and her uncle embraced her.

"What is it that you needed?" she asked, picking a pretty little daisy and putting it behind her ear. The yellow center would pick up the gold tones in her gown beautifully.

"I just thought it was time that you remembered your roots." Robb stood straight and whistled loud. It was a resonating sound, and Lyla's ears twinged in pain at the high pitch. Before she could reprimand him for it, there was a howl that made her heart jerk and she twisted around to see a pepper-brown beast chasing towards her. Tears filled her eyes before she could even speak the name.

Rose was thrice the size she'd been when she left with Jaime to find Lancel. She was half the size of Morrow, her long fur making her appear even larger. Her brown eyes were locked on her and she ran to the wolf with a thundering heart. She hadn't seen her in over four moons passed. "Rose!" Lyla giggled happily, the beast jumping up bouncing towards her. She tumbled and it caught her, giving her an easier time to the ground below. "I missed you," she whispered into the wolf's fur, tears streaming down her face.

"She wouldn't let us near her," Edmure commented from behind her, "she growled at everyone but that damned Kingslayer. Look at her, acting like a fucking pup with you. Nearly bit three of our men's arms off trying to tie her up."

Lyla kissed Rose's snout and eyed her uncle with a grin. "She knows her masters."

"Ly, there was serious business I needed to discuss with you." Robb raked a hand through his hair, sighing. He looked so old now, she observed. "Your Kingslayer has told me of the weak numbers in the West. I'm going to invade the Westerlands. I'm sending Theon to the Iron Islands to negotiate with his father, we need their support." She listened patiently until he grew silent, and she knew what he wanted to say was stuck in his throat. "I... have made another deal with the Kingslayer. In regards of your child."

She looked up at him, confused. "What of my child?" Her arms wrapped around her belly instinctively, and Rose stepped between them, growling at her brother.

"I have his word that your firstborn will wed whomever I need it to in order to seal my reign on the throne."

Lyla gasped, anger rising within her. Jaime had promised this without her consent? What of love? What of choices? She had as much with her own husband, she wanted to be able to say the same for her children. "No, Robb," she said darkly. "You cannot have my child. You already have Arya and Bran matched with lowly Freys- you yourself have been promised. Not my babe, Robb, please. I cannot bare it."

Her pleas made her brother frown, and he shook his head. "You are a Stark and a Lannister, and your child will be the heir to Casterly Rock- should it be a son. If you birth a daughter she will be nothing regardless."

"My children will never be nothing," she said fiercely, and Rose snapped at him. She felt tears stinging her eyes and quickly walked off, storming to her chambers with her direwolf trailing quickly behind.

Jaime was sitting on the bed with a frown on his face when she entered. When she saw him, the world turned red. "You gave away our baby? To be sent off as a child to marry whomever my brother pleases?" She bunched up her shawl and threw it at him, the soft fabric slipping from his nose like a waterfall of gold-green glitter.

"Lyla, please, don't upset yourself." He went to touch her stomach but Rose nipped his hand and he retreated quickly, growing ever more furious. "You want me to rebel against the man that set me free when I could have been locked in that cage for years more if he wanted? Killed on his whim? He has given me freedom, and you want me to throw that in his face?"

"You have betrayed your father and given him precious information," she retorted, stomping her foot. "You have given him all he could have asked for- and then you offered our child in the mix like it was a puppet? Like I don't have a say?"

"You don't have a say!"

Silence fell upon them like the darkest of nights, shrouding them in their own anger. Lyla was taken aback at his sudden lack of respect for her, and could barely tear her eyes away from how disheveled the man before her now appeared.

"Don't," he said when she turned to go, grabbing her arm. "Please, listen. It was not my choice. Your brother... he told me we would not be separated if he could marry off our child, the heir to Casterly Rock. He said that we could be together..." Jaime sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. "I can't lose you again. And if that means that our child is to be married to a suitor of the king's choice then that's what will happen. Do you really think that your brother will spite you and marry your child to a monster? He loves you, and regardless of its sire, he loves that babe within you."

She felt her eyes water, emotions roiling within her. He's right, she thought as she went to his side and rested her head on his shoulder. "Jaime, I'm scared. We are making all these promises of a kingdom that may not come to rise. What if Robb, gods forbid, doesn't win the throne as he plans? What if the boy king wins? All of this will be for naught."

"We will be okay. We will always be okay." Jaime pulled her in for a kiss and Rose plopped beside them on the featherbed. His hand fell to her belly and she smiled. "What do you think it will be? A boy or a girl?" he asked.

She laughed lightly. "There is no way to know... but I've always fancied it to be a boy, with the Stark looks." She recalled all the dreams she'd had of her child being born a son, with dark hair and grey eyes. "What about you? What is it that you want?"

"I haven't a clue. I would be happy with a son or daughter. Perhaps both."

Lyla grinned. "Don't ask unless you're ready to receive," she said.

The tension diminished and she and Jaime lay together on their bed, silence covering them once more, only this time as a blanket in which they shared their secret language. The hand he used to caress her arm told her it would be okay, the lips he pressed to her temple told her that he would never leave her again. They were comforts she thought she would never again feel.

"I thought of you each and every day," she whispered to him, rolling on her side and propping herself on her open palm. "When you were away. I thought our child would be born a Snow and I would be cast away to Winterfell. I thought you had taken the roll as Lord of Casterly Rock and left me to be an old maid."

Jaime snorted and wrapped his arm lazily around her. "Do you truly think I would ever leave you?" He trailed kisses along her neck and sighed deeply into her skin. "I am so sorry. Not only for all the pain I have caused you, but that which my family has." He was quiet for a good long while, and then suddenly jolted up, like he was about to be sick.

"Lyla, I have something to tell you. It is because I don't wish to cause you any further pain that I feel this should remain a secret... but you were so honest with me when I was in that cage, about how you knew about... Cersei... and your kiss with Willas bloody Tyrell... Well, there is something you need to know." He looked determined but frightened, and she sat up, brow raised as a sign for him to continue. "Ly, the day that Bran fell from the tower... I was there."

"I know," she said. "My mother told me you carried him into the castle yourself." Why was he bringing all of this up? It was so long ago...

"But you don't know why I was there," he said. To admit, she had never questioned why he had been there in the first place, and now she was more than eager to know. "Lyla, I was in the tower that Bran was climbing. I was... I was with Cersei. You should know the nature of our being alone together in an empty tower."

His trailed-off of words caught her by no surprise. She had fully accepted her husband's past with Cersei, and it only made the more sense as to why the queen had been so hateful to her. But what did any of this have to do with Bran's fall? She stared at him until the realization washed over her. She felt as though she would be sick. "Jaime... why must you tell me this... why now? If there was anything I could go without knowing it would be this..." Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of the morning of Bran's fall, when she and he were alone in the yard, practicing at swords. Not only had the rumors of him being a sisterfucker been true and he fathered on her three bastards... he had pushed her brother from the tower when he discovered Jaime and Cersei together.

She looked up at him, betrayed. The sweet touches they shared only moments before, the hands and lips that brought her such comfort, made her want to vomit. "Just when I thought you could do no more wrong, Jaime..." Her choked, sad words were cutting him into pieces, she saw it in the way he slumped and his eyes misted over. Her mind now connected everything wrong in the realm to him and, in that moment, it all added up. "You... you ruined my family. You and your bastard son. You have broken my Bran, my mother attacked by a man, a Lannister man, who was sent to kill my brother, my father's head lopped off by your bastard! It was because Bran was attacked that this whole war began!" She pointed at him with fire burning in her ice-blue eyes and Rose leaped from the bed to defend her. "You started all of this, yet pretend to be so ignorant!"

Her voice rose, as did her anger. She had nearly been thrown into a cage long with him for being so bold with her king brother as to beg for his freedom, she had been looked down upon by the northmen by her choice in staying his faithful wife, she had repeatedly risked her life, as well as the babe's, for Jaime. Yet each new day brought a new truth to surface that she had been so blind to- that she wished she wasstill blind to. He had lied to her enough, he had disrespected her enough. Perhaps she should not have brushed off her grandfather's offer to have the marriage annulled, she thought furiously.

"I fought for your freedom from that wretched pig's pen, when I should have left you believing I was a murmur's farce." She rose from the bed in a fury, but just as soon as her feet touched the ground pain shot up her spine and she fell to the floor, convulsing involuntarily.

"Lyla!" Jaime was at her side in an instant, and had she not been so hurt and betrayed by him, she might have accepted his arms around her, but instead she pushed herself away and called for her brother. "Robb! Robb!"

She was nearly out of breath from screaming when her lower abdomen began to contract, making her scream all anew. No, she thought, frightened, I can't have the baby, not now, not like this!

And as the child pursued life, somewhere not so far away a king took his last breaths.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

Everything went by so quickly, a blur in her memory. When she woke, she remembered very little, other than the sounds of a baby crying and the utter rush of delight she had at the panicked first breaths of her child.

"My baby," she moaned, reaching into the dim-lit room.

Without warning, what seemed like a hundred bedmaids rushed to her side, checking her eyes and her pulse and the region below the sheets that seeped blood like sap from a tree. Her arms were lifted and checked and her legs were rocked back and forth. She didn't pay it much mind- she barely noticed at all.

Milk of the poppy, she thought, nearly incoherent as her head lolled from side to side, her eyes unable to focus on any one maid. "My baby," she repeated more firmly.

"Lyla!" The voice was familiar, but she couldn't put a name to the face with russet red curls and eyes like riverwater. "You should have told me at once," the stranger reprimanded a maid and the woman flushed like a beet and backed away.

"She's only just woken up, Your Grace," the young woman defended meekly. Another maid tugged at her elbow to silence her. Your Grace?

She turned and faced the stranger again. "Robb," she said, realizing he was no true stranger. "Brother. Where is my baby?"

He hushed her, which only added to the flames building inside her. All of this nonsense and these silly maids and suspense, but where was her child! Her hand glided to her stomach but the pain she felt at the touch made her almost wretch and she screamed aloud.

"Out, out!" A maid tutted Robb, who left promptly, and something thick and sweet was poured down her throat until the pain dulled away and darkness over took her once more.

And then there was nothing.

She didn't wake again for long. In fact, too long. She had slept for three weeks a maid told her as her lashes fluttered the sleep away.

Her curls were flat from sweat and heavy, and she smelled something rotten. She touched her belly, rubbing it. Wasn't there supposed to be something there? "A bath," she asked a maid. There were more than ten in the room, and three went to fulfill her command. The others went to fetch her water and a fresh bedgown. And Robb.

Her brother burst into the door as she finished being tied into the thick white gown. She was freshly bathed now, and her curls sprung back into shape as soon as they were brushed out. "Robb," she said, a flood of relief washing through her as she was helped onto the bed.

He sighed at the sight of her. She was frail now, thin and bony. She hadn't eaten in a month, hadn't been out of bed in a month. The water had nearly been black with her dirt. Her long curls were lack for luster, and there were grave hollows under her eyes. She looked half a corpse, but felt renewed with energy. Her hand graced her stomach again and she looked down with a flash of remembrance. There was a reason she'd slept so long, a reason she was so ill.

"Robb, where's my baby?" she asked her brother, looking up at him in desperation. If she and Jaime were to be doomed, she at least wanted her child. He hasn't even come to see me once, she thought with tears in her eyes.

Her brother pursed his lips and dragged a chair slowly to her bedside, nodding for a maid to leave and fetch what she presumed was her child. "Lyla, your stress induced your labor. That's what the maester says, anyways. He said that you weren't far along enough... Ly, you had two babies. Twins."

She eyed him with confusion. She'd only ever felt the one babe, only ever thought of her beautiful grey-eyed dark-haired boy that she would name for her father. When the maid reentered, Robb reached for the tiny bundle and she waited for her to leave and fetch the other babe. When the woman just stood there guiltily, Lyla raised a brow. "Go get my other child," she ordered angrily, but the maid only began to cry and ran from the room. Robb ordered the rest to leave as well.

"What's going on, Robb? Where's my other baby?" She tried to grab at the bundle in his arms, to see her child, but he held it and his eyes too began to swell with tears.

"Ly, the other baby is gone. It didn't make it."

She laughed in disbelief. "I'm in no mood for folly, Robb, please send for my other child." His deep look of remorse sobered her and she shook her head. "Please tell me you're playing a cruel jest, Robb. Don't... don't tell me my baby died."

"You still have one, Ly," he said hastily, shoving the bundle in her arms. "Your daughter."

For a long while, Lyla didn't dare look at the tiny face wrapped in pale silver swaddling cloth. Her heart was being torn at the seams. Her baby died. Her child. She felt a deep longing for the tiny soul that was lost to her. She'd never even gotten to set eyes on it.

When a gurgling interrupted her cold, broken thoughts for her lost child, she finally sucked up her pain and looked down.

The face was absolutely dainty, surrounded by a halo of beautiful golden curls. Her nose was pink and her lips were pinker, in an 'o' shape as she cooed and reached up at Lyla. She grabbed her daughter's itty-bitty hand, which could only curl around her small pinky finger. Sobs racked through her chest and she curled herself over her daughter. How could the gods be so cruel? How could they give her such a beautiful child but take from her another?

"Jaime," she choked out through her tears. "I want Jaime, Robb... and I want to see the baby I lost."

Her brother sighed and chewed at his lower lip for a moment before rising and leaving. What seemed like an hour later, the door reopened and closed again, and her husband came to her side with a bundle in his arms. She switched with him, and got her first and last look at her lost child. Her son.

He too had Jaime's golden hair, but it didn't curl like his sisters, and was wavy, like Jaime's. He was blue and hard as rock, and smelled like rot and preservative, but she had never seen such a perfect little baby boy in her life. He was so beautiful, so perfect. She felt something like a pit of darkness tugging at her heart when a tear dropped on his cheek and she had to wipe it away. The feeling of cinderstone was the best way to describe the feel of his skin under her fingers. She sobbed more when he didn't cry at the feel of her hands on him, or reach for her like her daughter did.

Her son was dead, and she felt barely more than that herself.

"You never came to me," she said, her voice never overreaching a whisper. "When I was sick. You never came to me."

Jaime let out a sob of his own. "I couldn't see you like that. I couldn't leave our babies alone... I never left his side, Ly."

They both knew he meant their son.

She turned and the desperation she felt in that moment overwhelmed the hate she felt for him just a month ago, the hate that caused her to lose her son. He got up on the bed with her and held her until she had no more tears to cry. Their dead son lay in her arms, and their living daughter lay in Jaime's.

"We need to name him," she said quietly. "I won't bury my son without naming him."

Jaime spoke slowly, near her ear. A rasp from his sobs remained. "Eddard," he said. It almost sounded apologetic.

Lyla nodded and began crying once more at the thought of her father, tall and smiling and warm. "Eddard," she agreed.

"And her?" Jaime looked down at the sleeping child in his arms, two times smaller than Lyla remembered Rickon being as a babe.

She reached over and touched the glimmering golden curls that covered her daughter's head like a shroud. It was hard to imagine that any one being could be so small and defenseless. Lyla sighed. "The heir to Casterly Rock should be named for a lion," she said, tracing a finger down the little infant's cheek and watching in fascination as the baby rolled into her touch. "Her name should be Joanna."

The funeral for little Eddard was held later that evening, though the maids refused to allow Lyla to allow attend due to her health.

She watched them place colorful wildflowers around his tiny body, which was wrapped in red and gold silk. Sweet words were spoken of how he'd fought hard for his life, though it pleased the gods to take him away. The loss of her son amplified the love she had for her daughter, her only child.

Little Joanna was crying profusely, no matter how gently she was rocked or how sweetly Lyla sang to her. She's crying for her brother, Lyla thought, and so am I.

Jaime himself buried their little boy, and Robb helped shovel the earth atop of his lifeless body. She wondered what her mother would do if she had lost any of her children, if she would cry and scream that it was unfair, or if she would do her best and carry on, as Lyla tried to do now.

She patted Joanna's back soothingly until the tiny baby's wails turned to soft, quiet little snores.

Her whole body was weak as soon as she seated herself in the great wooden rocking chair. She felt lifeless, but she couldn't give up. She had Joanna, even if little Eddard was gone. The chest of her daughter rose and fell like steady waves, and the golden curls turned as pale and soft in the sunlight as the yellow roses of Highgarden. She loved this tiny baby more than she could even comprehend, even more so now that she had lost her son and only had her daughter left.

There were heavy footsteps outside the door and she raised a brow as Robb ran in. She looked back to where her son was being buried but it was already getting dark outside. How long had she been sitting there?

"Ly, we need to talk," her brother said with the utmost urgency.

"What about?" she asked, holding Joanna tighter. Something about the way her brother stood made her uneasy.

He paced for a while before slamming his fist onto the featherbed. "Someone told Lord Tywin that you were here. A spy. They told him you've given birth and now he's sent an envoy that I don't know if I can refuse." Robb's blue eyes turned to ice.

"What is it? What is he offering?"

"He's offering to give us Sansa and Arya for you and the baby," he said.

Her mouth gaped and she looked down at her baby, her little Joanna. "He wants me? Why doesn't he just ask for her? And Jaime? Jaime is his heir."

"I won't give him Jaime, he knows that. But you are levy on me, Ly. If he has you, he can keep Jaime safe with me."

"But Jaime's already safe with you, Robb," she retorted, confused.

Robb heaved a great sigh and raked his hand through his tight red curls. "I can't refuse this, Lyla. If we get Sansa and Arya back, we've gotten our family back together. We could almost go home!"

"And just leave me and Joanna in the hands of the Lannisters? What is it that you'll gain, Robb? You'll still have two Stark women in the lion's den."

"That's just the thing, Ly," Robb said, looking over at her with a sort of sadness in his eyes. "You're not Stark women."

She stiffened and crouched defensively over her sleeping child's body. "You promised you wouldn't separate Jaime and I," she tried as a final stand against Robb- but he was King in the North, and she was only a guest in his residence, or so she finally realized.

Joanna started wailing and Robb went to grab hold of his niece, but Lyla held onto her daughter fiercely- as fierce as a lion- and begged to be alone with her child.

When Jaime entered, she and Joanna were crying together.

He said not a word, and scooped her into his arms. So he already knows, she thought solemnly as he held her tight.

"I don't know what to do," she said, her voice barely over a whisper. "I don't know who I am. I've lost my father, my son, and now my husband."

Jaime held her all the tighter. "You're not losing me. I will always find a way to you, Lyla. I love you. I'll always love you. Look at me." He wrapped a finger under her chin and forced her to look him in the eye, though he looked blurry through her tears. "You are Lyla Lannister, future Lady of the Rock and mother of the heir of the Rock. You are my wife and my entire reason for existing. You and our daughter, anyway."

The way Jaime looked at Joanna made her heart nearly forget the pain of losing Eddard. He loved their baby as much as she did. Had held her more and kissed her more and knew her more. He'd been with her the whole month that Lyla was sickly in her bed, had taken care of her the whole time.

"She's so beautiful," he said softly, caressing her little golden curls. When he looked back up at her he was almost in tears. "I promise you, Lyla, that I will cross the Seven Seas if it means being with you. You have to go now, like I did when I went searching for Lancel, but I will find you. I won't ever give up."

They lay in each other's arms for the last time in what may be months that night, holding onto each other, and their daughter, for dear life. The world had flipped upside down, and Lyla only hoped that the last of her family, her husband and her daughter, would be spared the fate of her son, who rested forever in the cold, hard ground.


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

She watched from the window as all of her things were carried out to the wagon. Boxes of gowns given to her by Robb, jewels that had been brought from Winterfell. Winterfell, she though, yearning. She wished for the world she had before King Robert and his horsemen galloped into their courtyard. She wished for Sansa and Arya, for sweet crippled Bran and darling baby Rickon. For Jon. For her father. Her eyes misted at the thought of serene Lord Stark. She envisioned him with little Joanna on his lap, smiling down at her...

She wiped her eyes and grabbed Joanna from her cradle, holding her close. Her perfect, golden haired little girl. The light of her life. The baby gurgled in a fashion that reminded Lyla of Rickon when he was a babe, and she smiled sadly. Would this babe ever know of its family in the North? Or would it be extinguished before she had a chance?

Her door opened and the guard called out a name she thought she might not hear again.

"Lady Catelyn Stark, my lady,"

She looked up to see a red haired woman before her, whose blue eyes were drowning in tears. "My darling, my sweet girl," her mother said. Her eyes traveled down to the bundle in her arms and the tears began to fall. "I had heard there were two."

Lyla looked back towards the window, where the little bunch of dead flowers rested. "My son is dead," she replied stiffly.

Catelyn came to her side and put a kind hand on her shoulder. "No mother should outlive her child. I am so sorry, my love." She pulled the blanket from the babe's head and smiled a melancholy sort of smile. "So beautiful. Golden. What have you named her?"

"Joanna, for Jaime's mother," she said softly, handing her little baby to her mother. They both reclined on her bed, admiring the tiny thing. "They were not ready when I birthed them. I was induced by..." she though of Jaime's confession and sighed. She could not tell her mother, she would never forgive him. Lyla would not have if it were her own son crippled. "I was induced by the great stress of riding to Riverrun from Bitterbridge. I should have known better, I was too far along to ride."

Catelyn frowned. "You should not have left me," she retorted with bitterness staining her voice. "Mayhaps this would not have happened, mayhaps your son would have lived."

Lyla looked up at her mother and finally her built up anger released as salty tears spilling down her cheeks. "Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I've thought of everything I could have done differently? He was my child, perhaps the only son I'm like to have. I never even saw his face before he died. I only saw him when he was as cold and grey as stone, mother." Her words were like ice, stabbing Catelyn though she did not mean to be so cruel. She looked down at her thriving Joanna and sobbed. "He looked so like Jaime. Golden and beautiful. Jaime named him for father. Lord Eddard Lannister, he would have been. A little Ned of my own."

Catelyn embraced her with a warm hug, kissing her cheek. Their streaming tears met, as did their connections as mothers. "My little wild wolf. You are so strong," her mother said softly. "You must be strong yet, my child. I have tried to reason with Robb, but..."

"But Sansa and Arya are more important," she said plainly, a frown dragging on her lips. "How did they find Arya? I thought she was missing."

"They found her pretending to be a boy with a group of young men destined for The Wall. I assume Ned set it up, but Cersei's men found her soon enough." Catelyn didn't sound upset- rather, she seemed overtly relieved that her daughter had been found. Lyla was too. She missed her wicked little sister. Just as much as she missed her sweet one.

"You will tell them I love them, yes? That I miss them?" Lyla asked, pursing her lips. Catelyn nodded and she did so in return, looking down at her daughter. "Let them know Joanna is healthy, and that their niece longs to see them, as I do."

She rose when the Lannister men came to her door. They were unmistakable in the decedent crimsons and golds of House Lannister. "I must go," she told her mother, who began crying all anew.

"It seems every time I find you, you leave me," she replied through her weeping.

Lyla kissed her mother's forehead and forced herself to smile. "This is for Sansa and Arya," she said before she took Joanna back and nodded to her escorts and followed them out. They did not look familiar, but none looked at her with hard eyes.

When she reached the courtyard, Robb, Edmure, and Jaime all stood in a line to greet her. All were freshly washed and in crisp clothing. Her brother smiled at her, as did her uncle, but Jaime was as hard as rock, with no tell to his emotions- but for when he laid eyes on their baby girl. She caught the flicker of pain that flashed when he saw Joanna.

"Brother," Lyla greeted coldly, allowing him to embrace her. "Uncle," she said, as Edmure kissed the ring on her finger. She went to Jaime and felt her resolve crumbling. She tried to act strong, so as not to give Robb the pleasure- or displeasure- of seeing her weakened by their separation, but when he wrapped his strong arms around her she found it hard not to shed a tear.

"I love you," she told him firmly, "and I will miss you every second that we are apart. You will be safe here, you have my full confidence in that. And in the fact that I will see you soon."

He nodded and kissed her deeply. "It is you who are not safe. Were it any other way, it would be me leaving for the lion's den," he said, trying to reassure her.

"But it is not," she sighed, kissing him again. "I promise we will be together soon. All of us." She handed Joanna to her father and watched as Jaime kissed and held her until the baby cried out happily and giggled. "She will not grow up without you," Lyla vowed.

He nodded. "Of that I promise you, wife."

One of the Lannister guards tugged on her dagged sleeve and she nodded, resentfully removing her eyes and arms from her husband so that she might get into the carriage.

"Your sacrifice moves us all, sister," Robb told her as she climbed into the wheelhouse.

She laughed. "My sacrifice? No, dear Robb, it is your sacrifice, is it not? You chose this, to send me away. It was not I." Her brother's face turned sour and angry, and he called for the carriage to depart.

As she watched her world grow smaller and smaller from out the back window, she couldn't help but feel her heart as it ripped from her chest. Joanna began crying, and she held her baby close, cooing her her. "It's just you and me now, little one. Just you and momma."

They arrived in King's Landing only a few weeks later. Joanna had already outgrown the little gown she'd worn when Robb first brought her to Lyla's chamber, so now the babe wore a fitting gown of bright crimson with a shimmering golden sash- to match her golden curls. Lyla herself wore the opposite- a glittery golden dress with inlays of crimson and a cloak with the crest of Lannister upon it.

Her guards helped her from the carriage and she was greeted by someone she felt almost happy to see. "Lord Tyrion," she greeted. He had been so kind to her on her first trek to the capitol, perhaps that had not been a farce. He smiled up at her and then at the baby.

"Lady Lyla, and my dearest sweet niece. Might I look upon her?" Lyla knelt down and Tyrion grinned so wonderfully at the sight of her. "The perfect image of Jaime, is she not? But for those eyes- how strange they are! They remind me of a fair maiden I read about. Have you heard of Sheira Seastar?"

Lyla smiled. He was kind still. She looked at her daughter's eyes- they had developed on the journey here, one of bright blue like her own, and one of deep emerald, like Jaime's. "Yes, I have," she replied, "though I don't believe she was a maiden, my lord."

He laughed. "Oh, no need for titles. I am your brother now, am I not? Tyrion is just fine."

She nodded and he walked her through the gates. Men and women were lined thickly in the throne room, bowing before her and blessing her and Joanna, but all she could see was the maid forcing the mother's tea down her throat as her father fought to reach her. Tyrion squeezed her hand, pulling her back to the present.

They stopped short of the Iron Throne, where the boy king sat, smugly eyeing her. Cersei sat beside him, and Tommen beside her. Myrcella was absent, and Lord Tywin stood to the right. He saw her immediately and inclined his head. She bowed low, Joanna at her hip. "Your Grace, how good it is to be back at court." The lie came as easily as a blink. It was a world of lie or die, here in the capitol.

Joffrey nodded. "Yes, welcome back, Lady Lannister. I see you have given birth."

She held Joanna closer and offered a tight-lipped smile. "I have, Your Grace. A daughter."

"I heard you had a son as well. Where is he?"

Lyla looked down and fought her hardest not to show her anger. "It has pleased the gods to take him from me, Your Grace," she replied through her teeth, her grip on Joanna the only thing grounding her.

"Lady Lyla." It was Cersei's voice this time. "I am deeply sorry for your loss. I hope you find the comforts of court distracting from your tragic loss."

She could almost see the queen regent smiling in victory. "I thank you," she responded, looking to little Tommen. He looked so excited, grinning from ear to ear. Oh sweet boy, how I've missed you.

"Lady Lannister," Lord Tywin said at last. "Come with me."

She looked down to Tyrion and he nodded, staying behind as she walked with her goodfather to the Tower of the Hand.

"You will be staying close," he said suddenly. "That way any mischief will be happening right under my nose. I hope these chambers suit you well enough." He opened his arm to a room that was all too familiar. It was her old chamber- unchanged from when she left. There were still banners of Houses Stark and Lannister on either side of the bed, the gleaming see-through curtains blowing in the breeze. Even hers and Jaime's clothes were in the wardrobe, half opened from the wind.

"I will send a seamstress to make new gowns for the child," Tywin told her, "and she will be seen by the Grand Maester immediately for an inspection."

Lyla nodded, looking down at her daughter. "She is in perfect health, I assure you-" Joanna began to sniffle and then began to wail, and without a thought Lyla handed her to Lord Tywin as she went to grab a toy from one of the chests that had once been Tommen's before he abandoned it in her chamber. When she returned, she witnessed something she thought impossible for such a callous man.

Lord Tywin was rocking Joanna, and even cooing gently. He was as tender with her as Jaime was. She cleared her throat, but it was like he didn't hear her. For a moment he was in his own world with the little babe.

She pursed her lips. "My lord," she tried, and he looked up at her sharply with his pale green eyes, flecked with gold. "Joanna is probably tired, I should put her to rest."

He raised a brow when she mentioned her child by name. "Joanna?" He questioned. "Something Jaime suggested?"

She smiled down at her baby as she took her back. "No, my lord," she said. "I named her."

The Great Lion stared at her with a queer look in his eyes before he looked away bitterly. "I will have a cradle brought up," he said curtly before taking his leave.

After the men had finished bringing her belongings up, she laid down with Joanna on her chest. The baby was distracted with the small jingling toy of Tommen's, and Lyla started at her with soft eyes. She truly was a darling baby, so beautiful. Just like her father. And her eyes. She would surely be a becoming young woman when the time came.

She sighed and wondered if Jaime would ever see her as such. "I love you," she said absentmindedly, to Joanna, and in a way, to Jaime.

But love would not carry her thousands of fathoms to him, and she cried openly, for she was alone here in the Den of Death.


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

It did not take long for Lyla to receive a note from Margaery. Her friend from Highgarden was to be queen now, in Sansa's stead, and it did not surprise her that she would find out about her new station in King's Landing so quickly. She thanked the maid who brought her the letter and followed her through the halls, Joanna at her hip. She hadn't left her daughter in anyone's care since coming to King's Landing. She could feel Cersei's eyes on her, waiting for the moment to strike and kill her babe for good.

"They are here, my lady," the girl said, clearly a cousin to Margaery. Perhaps Alla? Whoever she was, Lyla smiled to her and entered the Maiden Vault.

There was a long table, covered in pretty roses, of course, and greenery. Women dressed in the greens and golds of House Tyrell all spoke amongst themselves, that is, until they saw Lyla.

It was Lady Olenna who spoke to her first. "Come, sit with me child," she said, patting the free seat at her side. Margaery was across from her, donning a bright grin, adorned in lavish golds and blacks to show her loyalty to Joffrey.

She made her way to the table and took the seat graciously. "How terrible," the Queen of Thornes said with a pinched frown, "what they did to your father. But that is the grace of being honorable."

"Grandmother!" Margaery looked shocked, eyes disapproving. "Lyla is a friend to us. Don't be so cruel."

"I'm not being cruel, I'm being honest. Something that is lacking here in the capitol." The woman turned to her and shook her head. "Do not mind my granddaughter's courtesies. I know they have no effect on you, wolf girl."

Lyla smiled, slight as it was, and relaxed. So, they had not turned on her since she ran from Margaery and Renly's camp. She wondered if Willas had told his sister what happened between them.

A pip caught her attention and all turned to look at Joanna, who peeked through Lyla's hair shyly.

"My, my," Margaery whispered, smiling. "Might I hold her?"

Lyla pursed her lips. She hadn't let another lay hands on her, save for Tywin when she'd first arrived. Hesitantly, she lifted Joanna and handed her across the table to Margaery's waiting arms. The little golden haired babe giggled when her friend tickled her chin. "She's beautiful, Lyla," praised the queen-to-be. "And her eyes, so unusual. She will be a great beauty, like her mother."

Lady Olenna peered at the baby and sighed. "Poor thing, alone without her father."

"She is not alone," Lyla defended with a scowl. "She has her mother."

"And thank the gods for that," Margaery piped in.

"Not the gods. Loras. If it weren't for him, she'd have been beheaded along with her father." The old woman leaned in close and grabbed her hand. "I don't know why they brought you back here, or what they have in store for you, but know that it won't be good." She took Joanna from Margaery's arms and handed her back. "Keep her close."

Lyla held her daughter tight, smiling when she reached up and grabbed at her curls. "Lyla," Margaery said aloud, "it will not be long before I am queen. Mayhaps then... " Mayhaps then she can send me home. The thought was easy to finish. She smiled her thanks to her friend and after a meal of roasted duck and honey-crisp apples she excused herself.

It had been long since Lyla had found herself at ease, let alone in King's Landing. Every step she made was on thin ice, here, but in Margaery's presence she had allowed her walls to crumble, if only for a second. As she cruised down the halls, returning to her chamber, she thought on what Lady Olenna had said. Yes, I must keep her close, Lyla thought to herself, looking down at her daughter. She was gurgling and tugging at her mother's brown hair, so sweet and innocent...

"Lady Lyla," came a quiet, stern voice, and she looked up to see her goodfather standing over her.

"Lord Tywin, she greeted coolly, holding Joanna closer to her hip.

He looked her over, pale green eyes narrowed and collected. "Might I have a word?" he asked, stare softening when his gaze reached the baby.

She nodded slowly, hesitant, and followed as the great lion turned on his heel and started down the hall, to where his chambers were. They were only a few rooms away from her own, but she was nervous all the same.

They entered his solar and she took a seat, exhausted. She was still recovering from childbirth and walking so long with her child on her hip tired her. "What do you need to speak to me about, Lord Tywin?" she asked when her goodfather was seated in the large mahogany chair behind the giant red-stained desk, with golden lions painted on it and a banner of red velvet running down each leg.

He eyed her for a moment, then slid a paper towards her. She grabbed it, inspected the broken seal, then unfolded it and read.

Lady Catelyn Stark is committed for treason on grounds of releasing the captive Jaime Lannister free.

Lyla looked up, wide-eyed, and clutched the letter to her heart. Jaime was free! "Do you think he is headed for King's Landing?" she asked Lord Tywin, smiling and holding her daughter closer to her. Joanna gurgled and tugged at her mother's curls, rolling her weight from one side to the other, her little gown glinting in the sunlight.

"I believe he will," affirmed her goodfather.

This was the best news she'd had since Robb allowed her and Jaime to share a chamber in Riverrun. Her heart was beating so fast, and her eyes darted over the written words over and over. "Thank the gods," she whispered happily, kissing the crown of Joanna's head. "Shall there be a search sent for him? He must be brought home." Home to me, home to Joanna. Home in my arms.

"There is already a party looking for him. Many, in fact, but there is still the possibility that he will be found by Stark forces or Tully forces, in which case he will be killed."

Her heart fell to a low murmur then and she looked downcast. "Of course," she whispered. It would be asking too much to beg Robb for his life after he fled camp. It had already been asking the world of him to let her husband be with her in her chambers, and to hold their children when they were born and be there to send her off to King's Landing. He had done it out of brotherly love and respect for her, and pity for what she'd been through in her last remaining day in the capitol. But he was a king, and not a negotiator. He would have to kill Jaime, and she would have no chance to save him.

"Perhaps, my lord, I might go with the party," she suggested. "I know the riverlands like the back of my hand. I visited often when I would go to Highgarden as a girl, or when I was returning home to Winterfell."

His pale green eyes went uneasy. "You will go to Casterly Rock," he said firmly. "I want you there waiting for him when my men bring him home. King's Landing is no place to raise a child, you said so yourself. You will be bringing the Prince Tommen with you."

She clutched Joanna tighter. Casterly Rock? That had always been the plan, of course, but life had gotten in the way...

She had never been to Casterly Rock. Never seen it, nor the Sunset Sea that Jaime had spoken so fondly of. The thought made her worry. But she would be bringing Tommen with her, and Joanna. She wouldn't be alone. She would have Jaime's children with her, little pieces of him to love until he was home. "When will I be leaving?" she asked. It seemed like she only arrived in King's Landing yesterday, thought in truth it had been weeks since her arrival.

Joanna began to wail and Lyla rocked her on her knee, but the baby kept whining so Lord Tywin rose and for a split second Lyla though that he might send her away. But he didn't. He grabbed the little babe gently and rocked her in his arms, tapping a finger to her quivering lips until she suckled it. "She is hungry," he noted quietly.

"It is nearly her feeding time," Lyla agreed, watching mystified as the terrifying Lion of Lannister, who had destroyed entire Houses and brought the Targaryens to the ground, cooed for a tiny, suckling babe. He loved her so; perhaps because she carried his dead wife's name, or because she was Jaime's daughter. Lyla could not tell.

Little Joanna reached up and grabbed at his golden whiskers, and Lyla saw Lord Tywin smile for the first time in her life. "You will take Joanna and ride for Casterly Rock at the end of the week. It will be the safest place."

She nodded and stared at the great Lannister Lord, eyeing as he cooed at the baby. "Why was I not sent to Casterly Rock directly instead of King's Landing?" she asked, accepting her daughter back when he handed her over. Joanna was smiling bright, her green-and-blue eyes glistening. "Pretty baby," she whispered to her.

"I wanted to see my granddaughter," Lord Tywin said. "And the Rock was being readied. I had a floor renovated for you and Jaime, so you might live comfortably there."

She thanked her good father, then took her leave to feed Joanna in the comforts of her own bedchamber. It was over with quickly, and she had only just enough time to retie her laces before Joanna was fast asleep on her lap.

Lyla curled her finger under her daughter's chin and sighed. Jaime was released, and would be looking to return to her. She wanted him at her side, wanted his arms around her and his lips on hers. She looked down and touch Joanna's little lips. They were the same shape as her father's, and it made Lyla's eyes water. I miss my husband, she thought miserably. I miss my father, and my home in Winterfell.

But Jaime and her father were gone, and Winterfell was a distant dream. Her eyes darted around to her reality, King's Landing. She remembered how hurt she had been when her father was selected to be Hand. She knew he would never come home, but she hadn't known then that she would never return to Winterfell. I am forever chained to the south, now, she thought sadly.

Lyla put Joanna to rest in the crib Lord Tywin had brought in for her weeks before, then went and watched the world go by, resting her arms on the balcony. It will not be summer forever, she reminded herself. I may be going to Casterly Rock, but I am bringing snow and steel with me.

I am a Stark, and Winter is Coming.

Two days' ride to either side of the kingsroad, they passed through a wide swath of destruction, miles of blackened fields, and orchards where the trunks of dead trees jutted into the air like archer's stakes. The bridges were burnt as well, and the streams were fattened with autumn rain, so they had to range along the banks in search of fords. The nights were filled with the howls of wolves, but they found no people.

It was at Maidenpool when they saw Lord Mooton's red salmon still flying above the castle on the hill. The towns, however, where deserted, the gates smashed, half the homes and shops burned and plundered. There was nothing living, but for stray dogs that skittered away at the slightest sound. The pool from which the town took its name, where legend said Florian the Fool had first glimpsed Jonquil bathing with her sisters, was so choked with rotting corpses that the water turned into a murky grey-green soup.

Jaime took one look and burst into song. "Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool..."

Brienne the Beauty snapped her head towards him. "What are you doing?"

"Singing. 'Six Maids in a Pool,' I'm sure you've heard it. Though somewhat prettier, I'll warrant."

"Be quiet," the wench said. The look on her face suggested she would have loved to seen him floating in the pool amongst the corpses.

"Unchain my hands and I'll play mute all the way to King's Landing. What could be fairer than that, wench?"

"Brienne! My name is Brienne!" A flock of crows went flapping into the air, startled at the sound.

"Care for a bath, Brienne?" He laughed. "You're a maiden and there's the pool. I'll wash your back." He remembered the tender baths he would share with Lyla. The first, the day after their wedding, the last, when they were finally together again in Riverrun...

Jaime missed his wife. He wanted nothing more than to run to her and bury himself in her arms and hold her until the world went black. He was shocked when Catelyn Stark had released him. "Bring my daughter back to me," she ordered. He'd had no objections. He wanted Lyla with him again- their time together had been too short, far, far too short. He wanted to kiss her and their daughter. If it meant gallivanting her off to Riverrun again to be with Lady Stark, that was fine by him.

The wench turned her horse's head and trotted away, catching Jaime's attention and pulling him back to reality. He followed her out of the ashes of Maidenpool, and half a mile on green began to creep back into the world once more. Jaime was glad for it. The burned lands reminded him too much of Aerys.

She's taking the Duskendale road, he noted. It would be safer than following the coast. Safer but slower, he thought.

They were riding past a trampled wheatfield and a low stone wall when Jaime heard the soft thrum from behind, as a dozen birds had taken flight at once. "Down!" he shouted, throwing himself against the neck of his horse. The gelding screamed and reared as an arrow took his rump. Another shaft went hissing past. His gelding lumbered off ponderously, blowing and snorting in pain. He glanced over to Brienne.

She was still ahorse, an arrow lodged into her back and another her leg. She didn't look like she even felt them. She pulled her sword and wheeled in a circle, searching for the bowman.

"Behind the wall," Jaime called, fighting to turn his half-blind mount back towards the fight. The reins were tangled in his damned chains. Fucking Stark, he thought, cursing Robb. It wasn't long before Lyla was gone that he chained Jaime again. The air was full of arrows again. "At them!" he shouted, kicking to show her how it was done.

The sad old horse found a jolt of speed and suddenly they were racing across the wheatfield, kicking up clouds of dust. The wench had better follow before they realize they're being charged my an unarmed man in chains.

Then he heard her coming hard behind. "Evenfall!" she shouted as her plow horse thundered by. She brandished her longsword. "Tarth! Tarth!"

A coupling of arrows flew harmlessly by, then a man, the bowman, broke into a run. The way unsupported bowmen always broke into a run before the charge of knights. Brienne reigned up at the wall. By the time Jaiem reached her, they had all melted into wood twenty yards away. "Lost your taste for battle?"

"They were running."

"That the best time to kill them."

Bowmen are fearless so long as they can hide behind a wall and shoot at you from afar, but if you come at them, they run. They know what will happen when you reach them. You have an arrow in your back, you know. And another in your leg. You ought to let me tend to them?"

"You?"

"Who else?"

The woods rang with course laughter. Brienne looked red-faced and flustered, clothing askew. By the looks of it, they might have caught them fucking, not fighting.

The men surrounded them. Swarthy Dornishmen, and blond Lyseni, Dothraki with bells in their braids, hairy Ibbenese, coal-blank Summer Islanders in feathered cloaks. He knew them. The Brave Companions.

Brienne found her voice. "I have a hundred stags-"

"We'll take that for a start, m'lady," said a cadaverous man in a tattered leather cloak."

"Then we'll have your cunt," said the noseless man. "It can't be as ugly as the rest of you."

"Turn her over and rape her arse, Rorge," urged a Dornish spearman with a red silk scarf wound about his helm. "That way you won't need to look at her."

"And rob her o' the pleasure o' looking at me?" Noseless said, and the other laughed.

Ugly and stubborn though she might be, the wench deserved better than to be gang raped by such refuse as these. "Who commands here?" Jaime demanded loudly. He couldn't sit by and watch it happen- he thought of what he might do if Lyla were there being threatened with rape.

"I have that honor, Ser Jaime." The cadaver's eyes were rimmed in red, his hair thin and dry. Dark blue veins could be seen through the pallid skin of his hands and face. "Urswyck I am. Called Urswyck the Faithful."

"You know who I am?"

The sellsword inclined his head. "It takes more than a beard to deceive the Brave Companions."

The Bloody Mummers you mean. Jaime had no more use for these than he did for Gregor Clegane or Amory Lorch. Dogs, his father called them all, and he used them like dogs, to hound his prey and pull fear from their hearts. "If you know me, Urswyck, you know you'll have your reward. A Lannister always pays his debts. As for the wench, as's highborn, and worth a good ransom."

The other cocked his head. "Is is so? How fortunate."

Jaime did not like the sly smile that crept onto Urswyck's lips. "You heard me. Where's the goat?"

"A few hours distant. He will be pleased to see you, I have no doubt, but I wouldn't call him a goat to his face. Lord Vargo grows prickly about his dignity."

since when had that slobbering savage had dignity? "I'll be sure and remember that, when I see him. Lord of what, pray?"

"Harrenhal. It has been promised."

Harrenhal? Jaime furrowed his brows. Has my father taken leave of his senses? He raised his hands. "I'll have these chains off." There came a paper dry chuckle from the depths of Urswyck's throat. Something felt wrong. "Did I say something amusing?"

Noseless grinned. "You're the funniest thing I seen since Biter chewed that septa's teats off."

"You and your father lost too many battles," offered the Dornishman. "We had to trade our lion pelts for wolf-skins."

Urswyck spread his hands. "What Timeon means to say is that the Brave Companions are no longer in the hire of House Lannister. We now serve Lord Bolton, and the King in the North."

Jaime snarled. "And men say I have shit for honor."

Urswyck was unhappy with the comment. On his signal, two of the Mummers grasped Jaime by the arms and Roge drove a mailed fist into his stomach. As he doubled over, grunting, he heard the wench protesting.

"Stop!" she said. "He's not to be harmed. Lady Catelyn sent us, to get a captive, he's under my protections..." Rorge hit him again, driving the air from his lungs. Brienne dove for her sword beneath the waters of the brook, but the Mummers were on her before she could ley her hands on it. Strong as she was, it took four of them to beat her into submission. He thanked the gods that Lyla was far, far away.

By the end the wench's face was swollen and bloody as Jaime's must have been. They'd knocked out two of her teeth, and it did nothing for her appearance. Stumbling and bleeding, the two captives were dragged back through the woods to the horses. Brienne was limping from the tight wound he'd given her in the brook. Jaime felt sorry for her. She would lose her maidenhood tonight, there was no doubting it.

"When we make camp for the night, you'll be raped, and more than once," he warned her. "You'd be wise not to resist. If you fight them, you'll lose more than a few teeth."

He felt Brienne's back stiffen against his. "Is that what you would do if you were a woman?"

He thought, for a moment, about what Lyla might have done. "If I were a woman, I'd make them kill me. But I'm not." Jaime kicked their horse into a trot. "Urswyck! A word!"

The cadaverous sellsword in the ragged leather cloak reigned up for a moment, then fell beside him. "What would you have of me, ser? And mind your tongue, or I'll chastise you again."

"Gold," said Jaime. "You do like gold?"

Urswyck studied him through reddened eyes. "It has its uses, I do confess."

Jaime flashed a knowing smile. "All the gold in Casterly Rock. Why let the goat enjoy it? Why not take us to King's Landing, and collect my ransom yourself? Hers as well, if you like. Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle, a maiden told me once." The wench squirmed at that, but said nothing.

"Do you take me for a turncloak?"

"Certainly. What else?"

For half a heartbeat Urswyck considered this proposition. "King's Landing is a long way, and your father is there. Lord Tywin may resent us for selling Harrenhal to Lord Bolton."

Cleverer than he looks, this one. "Leave me to deal with my father. I'll get you a knighthood."

"Ser Urswyck," the man said, savoring the sound. "How proud my dear wife would be to hear it. If only I hadn't killed her." He sighed. "And what of brave Lord Vargo?"

"Shall I sing you a verse of, "The Rains of Castamere'? The goat won't be quite so brave when my father gets hold of him."

"And how will he do that? Are your father's arms so long that they can reach over the walls of Harrenhal and pluck us out?"

"If need be," he said. King Harren's monstrous folly had fallen before, and it could fall again. "Are you such a fool as to think the goat can outfight a lion?"

Urswyck leaned over and slapped him lazily across the face. He is not scared of me, he realized with a chill. "I have heard enough, Kingslayer. I would have to be a great fool indeed to believe the promises of an oathbreaker like you." He kicked his horse and galloped smartly ahead.

Aerys, Jaime thought resentfully. It always turns to Aerys. "Why did you tell him Tarth was the Sapphire Isle?" Brienne whispered when Urswyck was out of earshot. "He's like to think my father's rich in gemstones..."

"You best pray he does."

"Is every word you say a lie, Kingslayer? Tarth is called the Sapphire Isle for the blue of its waters."

"Shout a little louder, wench, I don't think Urswyck heard you. The sooner they know how little you're worth in ransom, the sooner the rapes begin. Every man here will mount you, but what do you care? Just close your eyes, open your legs, and pretend they're all Lord Renly."

He thanked the Seven when her mouth stayed just for a time.

The day was nearly done by the time they found Vargo Hoat, sacking a small sept with another dozen of his Brave Companions. The leaded windows had been smashed, the carved wooden god dragged out into the sunlight. The fattest Dothraki Jaime had ever seen was sitting on the Mother's chest when they rode up, prying out her chalcedony eyes with the point of his knife. Nearby, a skinny balding septon hung upside down from the limb of a spreading chestnut tree. Three of the Brave Companions were using his corpse for an archery butt. One of the must have been good; for the dead man had arrows through both of his eyes.

When the sellswords spied Urswyck and the captives, a cry went up in half a dozen tongues. The goat was seated by a cookfire eating a half-cooked bird off a skewer, grease and blood running down his fingers into his long stringy beard. He wiped his hands in his tunic and rose. "Kingthlayer," he slobbered. "You are my captifth."

"My lord, I am Brienne of Tarth," the wench called out. "Lady Catelyn Stark commanded me to deliver Ser Jaime to his father in King's Landing."

The goat gave her a disinterested glance. "Thilence her."

"Hear me," Brienne entreated as Rorge cut the ropes that bound her to Jaime, "in the name of the King in the North, the king you serve, please, listen-"

Rorge dragged her off of the horse and began to kick her. "See that you don't break any bones," Urswyck called out. "The horse-faced bitch is worth her weight in sapphires."

The Dornishman Timeon and a foul-smelling Ibbenese pulled Jaime down from the saddle and shoved him roughly toward the cookfire. It would not have been hard for him to have grasped their sword hilts as they manhandled him, but there were too many, and he was still in fetters. He might cut down one or two, but in the end he would die for it. Jaime was not ready to die just yet, and certainly not for the likes of Brienne of Tarth. He wanted to die old and gray, with his wife at his side and his children around him.

"Thith ith a thweet day," Vargo Hoat said. Around his neck hung a chain linked in coins, coins of every shape and size, cast and hammered, bearing the likeness of kings, wizards, gods and demons, and all manner of fanciful beasts.

Coins from every land where he has fought, Jaime remembered. Greed was the key to this man. If he was turned once, he can be turned again. "Lord Vargo, you were foolish to leave my father's service, but it is not too late to make amends. He will pay well for me, you know it."

"Oh yeth," said Vargo Hoat. "Half the gold in Cathterly Rock, I thall have. But Firth I muth thend him a methage." He said something in his slithery goatish tongue.

Urswyck shoved him in the back, and a jester in green and pink motley kicked his legs out from under him. When he hit the ground one of the archers grabbed the chain between Jaime's wrists and used it to yank his arms out in front of him. The fat Dothraki put aside his knife to unsheathe a huge curved arakh, the wickedly sharp scythe sword the horselords loved.

They mean to scare me, he thought. The fool hopped on Jaime's back, giggling, as the Dothraki swagger towards him. The goat wants me to piss my breeches and beg his mercy, but he'll never have that pleasure. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, future Warden of the West, formerly of the Kingsguard; no sellsword could make him scream.

Sunlight ran silver along the edge of the arakh as it came shivering down, almost too fast to see.

And Jaime screamed.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

Jaime's hand still burned.

Still, still, long after they had snuffed out the torch they'd used to sear his bloody stump, days after, he could still feel the fire lacing up his arm, and his fingers twisting in the flames, the fingers he no longer had.

He had taken wounds before, but never like this. He has never known there could be such pain. Sometimes, unbidden, old prayers bubbled from his lips, prayers he learned as a child and never thought of since. Prayers he had first prayed with Cersei kneeling beside him in the sept at Casterly Rock. Sometimes he even wept, until he heard the Mummmers laughing. Then he made his eyes go dry and his heart go dead, and prayed for his fever to burn away his tears. Now I know how Tyrion has felt, all those times they laughed at him.

It was after the second time he fell from the saddle that they tied him tightly to Brienne of Tarth and made them share a horse again. One day, instead of back to front, they bound them face-to-face. "The lovers," Shagwell sighed loudly, "and what a lovely sight they are. 'Twould be cruel to separate the good knight and his lady. What would your wife say, Kingslayer?" Then he laughed that high shrill laugh of his, and Jaime's heart burned for Lyla. He wanted his sweet little wife, to bury himself in her curls and to hold their baby in his arms. He wanted to be with them again, and to never leave their sides.

His arms ached and his legs were numb from the ropes, but after a while none of that mattered. His world shrunk to the throb of agony that was his phantom hand, and Brienne pressed herself against 's warm, at least, he consoled himself, though the wench's breath was as foul as his own. Still, he pretended, if only for a moment, that her giant, hard body was that of his lithe little wife.

His hand was always between them. Urswyck had hung it about his neck on a cord, so it dangled down against his chest, slapping Brienne's breasts as Jaime slipped in and out of consciousness. His right eye was swollen shut, the wound inflamed, but it was his hand that hurt him the most. Blood and puss seeped from his stump, and the missing hand throbbed every time the horse took a step.

His throat was so raw that he could not eat, but he drank wine, when they gave it to him, and water when that was all they offered. Once they handed him a cup and he quaffed it straight away, trembling, and the Brave Companions burst into laughter so loud and harsh it hurt his ears. "That's horse piss yo're drinking, Kingslayer," Rorge told him. Jaime was so thirsty he drank it anyway, but afterward he retched it all back up. They made Brienne wash the vomit out of his beard, just as they made her clean him up when he soiled himself in the saddle.

Jaime lay on his back one night, staring at the night sky, trying not to feel the pain that snaked up his right arm every time he moved it. The night was strangely beautiful. The moon was a graceful crescent, and it seemed as though he had never seen so many stars. The King's Crown was at the zenith, and he could see the Stallion rearing, and there the Swan. The Moonmaid, shy as ever, was half-hidden behind a pine tree. How can such a night be beautiful? he asked himself. Why would the stars want to look down on such as me?

"Jaime," Brienne whispered, so faintly he thought he was dreaming it. "Jaime, what are you doing?"

"Dying," he whispered back.

"No, she said, "no, you must live."

He wanted to laugh. "Stop telling me what to do, wench. I'll die if it pleases me."

"Are you so craven?"

The word shocked him. He was Jaime Lannister, a former knight of the Kingsguard, future Lord of the Rock, he was the Kingslayer. No man had ever called him craven. Other things they called him, yes; Oathbreaker, liar, murderer. They said he was cruel, treacherous, reckless. But never a craven. "What else can I do, but die?"

"Live," she said, "live and fight, and take revenge. If not for you than for your wife." She'd spoke too loudly. Rorge heard her voice if not her words, and came over to kick her, shouting at her to hold her bloody tongue if she wanted to keep it.

Craven, Jaime thought, as Brienne fought to stifle her moans. Can it be? They took my sword hand. Was that all I was, a sword hand? Gods be good, is it true?

The wench had the right of it. He could not die. Lyla was waiting for him in King's Landing, and little Joanna. They needed him. He could see them clear as day when he closed his eyes, could see Lyla rocking the little bundle of golden curls by the window, looking out to where their son lay rotting in the cold ground. He wanted his boy, too... little Eddard...

When morning came, he made himself eat. They fed him a much of oats, horse food, butt he forced down every spoon. He ate again at evenfall, and the next day. Live, he told himself harshly, when the mush was like to gag him, live for Lyla, live for Joanna. Live for vengeance. A Lannister always pays his debts. His missing hand throbbed and burned and stank. When I reach King's Landing, I'll have a new hand forged, a golden hand, and one day I'll use it to rip our Vargo Hoat's throat.

The days and the nights blurred together in a haze of pain. He would sleep in the saddle, pressed against Brienne, his nose full of the stink of his rotting hand, and then at night he would lie awake on the hard ground, caught in a waking nightmare. Weak as he was, they always bound him to a tree. It gave him some cold consolation, to know they feared him that much, even now.

Brienne was always bound beside him. She lay there in her bonds like a big dead cow, saying not a word. The wench has built a fortress inside herself. They will rape her soon enough, but behind her walls they cannot touch her. But Jaime's walls were gone. They had taken his hand, they had taken his sword hand, and without it he was nothing. The other was no good to him. Since the time he could walk, his left arm had been his shield arm, no more. It was his right hand that made him a knight; his right arm that made him a man.

One day, he heard Urswyck say something about Harrenhal, and remembered that was to be their destination. that made him laugh aloud, and that made Timeon slash his face with a long thin whip. The cut bled, but beside his hand he scarcely felt it. "Why did you laugh?" the wench asked him that night, in a whisper.

"Harrenhal was where they gave me the white cloak," he whispered back. "Whent's great tourney. He wanted to show us all his big castle and his fine sons. I wanted to show them all too. I was only fifteen, but no one could have beaten me that day. Aerys never let me joust." He laughed again. "He sent me away. But now I'm coming back."

They heard the laugh. That night it was Jaime who got the kicks and punches. He hardly felt them either, until Rorge slammed his boot into his stump, and then he fainted.

It was not long before they tried to rape Brienne. She was going to fight, the stupid brave bitch, and Jaime found himself saving her. He'd shouted, "SAPPHIRES!" before they got too close, and Vargo Hoat had lisped, "Thee hath to be a maid, you foolth! Thee'th worth a bag of thaphireth!" And from then on, every night Hoat put guards on them, to protect them from his own.

The goat wanted to make a show of parading him in, so Jaime was made to dismount a mile from the gates of Harrenhal. A rope was looped around his waist, a second around Brienne's wrists; the ends were tied to the pommel of Vago Hoat's saddle. They stumbled along side by side behind Qohorik's striped zorse.

Jaime's rage kept him walking. The linen that covered the stump was gray and stinking with pus. His phantom fingers screamed with every step. I am still a Lannister. I am still the future Lord to Casterly Rock. He would reach Harrenhal, and then King's Landing. He would live. And I will pay this debt with interest.

As they approached the clifflike walls of Black Harren's monstrous castle, Brienne squeezed his arm. "Lord Bolton holds this castle. The Boltons are bannermen to the Starks."

"The Bolton's skin their enemies." Jaime remembered that much about the northman. Tyrion would have known all there was to know about the Lord of the Dreadfort, or Lyla, but Tyrion was a thousand leagues away, with his wife. I cannot die while Lyla lives, he told himself.

The castelon outside the walls had been burned to ash and blackened stone, and many men and horses had recently encamped beside the lakeshore, where Lord Whent had staged his great tourney in the year of the false spring. A bitter smile touched Jaime's lips as they crossed that torn ground. Someone had dug a privy tench in the very spot where he'd once knelt before the king to say his vows. I never dreamed how quick the sweet would turn to sour. Aerys would not even let me savor that one night. He honored me, and then he spat on me.

"The banners," Brienne observed. "Flayed man and twin towers, see. King Robb's sworn men. There, above the gatehouse, gray on white. They fly the direwolf."

Jaime twisted his head upwards to look. "That's your bloody wolf, true enough," he granted her. "And those are heads to either side of it."

Soldiers, servants, and camp followers gathered to hoot at them. A spotted bitch followed them through the camps, barking and growling until one of the Lyseni impaled her on a lance and galloped to the front of the column. "I am bearing Kingslayer's banner," he shouted, shaking the dead dog well above his head.

The walls of Harrenhal were so thick that passing beneath them was like passing through a stone tunnel. Vargo Hoat had sent two of his Dothraki ahead to inform Lord Bolton of their coming, so the outer ward was full of the curious, They gave way as Jaime staggered past, the rose around his waist jerking and pulling at him whenever he slowed. "I give you the Kingthlayer," Vargo Hoat proclaimed in that thick slobbery voice of his. A spear jabbed at the small of Jaime's back, sending him sprawling.

Instinct made him put out his hands to stop his fall. When his stump smashed against the ground the pain was blinding, yet somehow he managed to fight his way back to one knee. Before him, a flight of broad stone steps led up to the entrance of one of Harrenhal's colossal round towers. Five knights and a northman stood looking down on him; the one paleeyed in wool and fur, the five fierce in mail and plate, with the twin towers sigil on their surcoats. "A fury of Freys," Jaime declared. "Ser Danwell, Ser Aenys, Ser Hosteen." He knew Lord Walder's sons by sight; his aunt had married one, after all.

"My lords!" Brienne wrenched herself free and pushed forward. "I saw your banners. Hear me for your oath!"

"Who speaks?" demanded Ser Aenys Frey.

"Lannither'th wet nurth."

"I am Brienne of Tarth, daughter to Lord Selwyn the Evenstar, and sword to House Stark even as you are."

Ser Aenys spit at her feet. "That's for your oaths. We trusted the word of Robb Stark, and he repaid our faith with betrayal."

What could they mean? Jaime twisted to see how Brienne might take the accusation, but the wench was as singleminded as a mule with a bit between his teeth. "I know of no betrayal." She chafed at the ropes around her wrists. "Lady Catelyn commanded me to deliver Lannister to his wife at King's Landing-"

"Ransom him to Riverrun," Ser Danwell urged.

"Casterly Rock has more gold," one brother objected.

"Kill him!" said another. "His head for Ned Stark's!"

Shagwell the Fool somersaulted to the foot of the steps in his grey and pink motley and began to sing. "There once was a lion who danced with a bear, oh my, oh my..."

"Thilenth, fool." Vargo Hoat cuffed the man. "The Kingthlayer ith not for the bear. He ith mine."

"He is no one's should be die." Roose Bolton spoke so softly that men quieted to hear him. "And pray recall, my lord, you are not master of Harrenhal til I march north."

Fever made Jaime as fearless as he was lightheaded. "Can this be the Lord of the Dreadfort? When I last heard, my father had sent you scampering off with your tail betwixt your legs. When did you stop running, my lord?"

Bolton's silence was a hundred times more threatening than Vargo Hoat's slobbering malevolence. Pale as morning mist, his eyes concealed more than they told. Jaime misliked those eyes. They reminded him of the day at King's Landing when Ned Stark had found him seated on the Iron Throne. The Lord of the Dreadfort finally pursed his lips and said, "You have lost your hand."

"No," said Jaime, "I have it here, hanging round my neck."

Roose Bolton reached down, snapped the cord, and flung the hand at Hoat. "Take this away. The sight of it offends me."

"I will thend it to hith lord father. I will tell him he muth pay a hundred thouthand dragonth, or we thall return the Kingthalyer to him pieth by pieth. And when we hath hith gold, we thall deliver Ther Jaime to Karthark, and collect a maiden too!" A roar of laughter went up from the Brave Companions.

"A fine plan," said Roose Bolton, the same way he night say, "A fine wine," to a dinner companion, "though Lord Karstark will not be giving you his daughter. King Robb has shortened him by a head, for treason and murder. As to Lord Tywin, he remains at King's Landing, and there he will stay till the new year, when his grandson takes for bride a daughter of Highgarden."

"Is there word of my wife and child?" Jaime asked.

"They are well. As is your... nephew." Bolton paused before he said nephew, a pause that said I know. "Your brother also lives, though he took a wound in battle."

"Escourt Ser Jaime to Qyburn. And unbind this woman's hands." As the robe between Brienne's wrists was slashed in two, he said, "Pray forgive us, my lady. In such a troubled time it is hard to know a friend from a foe."

Brienne rubbed her wrist where the hemp had scraped her skin bloody. "My lord, these men tried to rape me."

"Did they?" Lord Bolton turned his pale eyes on Vargo Hoat. "I am displeased by that. By that, and this of Ser Jaime's hand."

There were five northmen and as many Freys in the yard for every Brave Companion. The goat might not be as clever as some, but he could count that high at least. He held his tongue.

"They took my sword," Brienne said, "my armor..."

"You shall have no need of armor here, my lady," Lord Bolton told her. "In Harrenhal, you are under my protection. Amabel, find suitable rooms for the Lady Brienne. Walton, you will see to Ser Jaime at once." He did not wait for an answer, but turned and climbed the steps, his fur trimmed cloak swirling behind. Jaime had only enough time to exchange a quick look with Brienne before they were marched away, separately.

In the maester's chambers beneath the rockery, a grey-haired, fathery man named Qyburn sucked in his breath when he cut away the linen from the stump of Jaime's hand.

"That bad? Will I die?"

Qyburn pushed at the wound with a finger, and wrinkled his nose at the gush of pus. "No. Though in a few more days..." He sliced away Jaime's sleeve. "The corruption has spread. See how tender the flesh is? I must cut it all away. The safest course would be to take the arm off."

"Then you'll die," Jaime promised. "Clean the stump and sew it up. I'll take my chances."

Qyburn frowned. "I can leave you the upper arm, make the cut at your elbow, but..."

"Take any part of my arm, and you'd best chop off the other one as well, or I'll strangle you with it afterward."

Qyburn looked in his eyes. Whatever he saw there gave him pause. "Very well. I will cut away the rotten flesh, no more. Try to burn out the corruption with boiling wine and poultice of nettle, mustard seed, and bread mold. Mayhaps that will suffice. It is on your head. You will want milk of the poppy."

"No." Jaimme dare not let himself be put to sleep; he might be short an arm when he woke, no matter what the man said.

Qyburn was taken aback. "There will be pain."

"I'll scream."

"A great deal of pain."

"I'll scream very loudly."

"Will you take some wine at least?"

"Does the High Septon ever pray?"

"Of that I am not certain. I shall bring you the wine. Lie back, I must needs strap down your arm."

With a bowl and a sharp blade, Qyburn cleaned the stump while Jaime gulped down strongwine, spilling it all over himself in the process. His left hand did not seem to know how to find his mouth, but there was something to be said for that. The smell of wine in his sodden beard helped disguise the stench of pus.

Nothing helped when the time came to pare away the rotten flesh. Jaime did scream then, and pounded his table with his good fist, over and over and over again. He screamed again when Qyburn poured boiling wine over what remained of his stump. Despite all his vows and all his fears, he lost conscientiousness for a time. When he woke, the maester was sewing at his arm with needle and catgut. "I left a flap of skin to fold back over your wrist."

"You have done this before," muttered Jaime, weakly. He could taste blood in his mouth where he'd bitten his tongue.

"No man who serves with Vargo Hoat is a stranger to stumps. He makes them wherever he goes."

Qyburn did not look a monster, Jaime thought. He was spare and soft-spoken, with warm brown eyes. "How does a maester come to ride with the Brave Companions?"

"The Citadel took my chain." Qyburn put away his needle. "I should do something about that wound above your eye as well. The flesh is badly inflamed."

Jaiem closed his eyes and let the wine and Qyburn do their work. "Tell me of the battle." As keeper of Harrenhal's raven's, Qyburn would have been the first to hear to news. He was thankful Lyla and Joanna arrived after the battle.

"Lord Stannis was caught between your father and the fire. It's said the Imp set the river itself aflame."

Jaime saw green flames reaching up into the sky higher than the tallest towers, as burning men screamed in the streets. I have dreamed this dream before. It was almost funny, but there was no one to share the joke.

"Open your eye." Qyburn soaked the cloth in warm water and dabbed at the crust of dried blood. The eyelid was swollen, but Jaime found he could force it open halfway. Qyburn's face loomed above. "How did you come by this one?" the maester asked.

"It was a gift."

"I'll grind some herbs you can mix with wine to bring down your fever. Come back on the morrow and I'll put a leech on your eye to drain the bad blood"

"A leech. Lovely."

"Lord Bolton is very fond of leeches," Qyburn said primly.

"Yes," said Jaime. "He would be."


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

She was breaking her fast with Margaery and Lady Olenna when the guards entered. Joanna began to sob when their armor clanked loudly, their swords tapping against the steel of their plate. She'd been sleeping in a bassinet beside Lyla, and so she grabbed her, quieting her. "What is the meaning of this?" she questioned the elaborate red-and-gold guards. Lannister guards.

"A raven, my lady," replied one of the knights lamely. He was smiling, a smile that Lyla did not like. She bowed low to Margaery and her grandmother, and they watched her go with wide, curious eyes.

The walk was one she was not familiar with, and so she held Joanna tightly to her. Winding halls and cascading staircases ensued before they approached a large double-doored room with lions of gold and crimson painted neatly on either side. The doors were opened for her, and she entered hesitantly, wishing for Rose and for Jaime, for strength.

Lord Tyrion slid from the top of his desk and walked slowly towards her. "Sister," he greeted, not unkindly. He gestured for her to take a seat, and she did, bouncing Joanna on her knee. Tyrion smiled cheekily at the babe, who could hold her own head up now. She reached for him and he held a finger out for her to grab hold of and suckle. "Her eyes," he remarked, "they are so like mine."

Lyla took note of his black-and-green bi colored eyes. Joanna's were much the same indeed, but one blue and one green. He made comment of as much when he first saw Joanna upon their arrival in King's Landing. "I don't believe that is why I'm here, my lord," Lyla said, pulling her child closer to her.

He nodded. "Of course, though I do wish I saw more of the darling. She is my most favorite of nieces."

"The only one near you," she murmured. Myrcella had been sent to Dorne, and Lyla missed her greatly. Whenever Tommen visited her to see Joanna, she would wait for Myrcella to come gallivanting through the doors, until she recalled that she was thousands of leagues away.

Tyrion sighed and took a seat across from her, settling uncomfortably in the rick velvet cushions. "My lady," he said, "I fear this is grave news I must convey to you. I... I do not know how to tell you..." Lyla stared nervously at him and pulled Joanna to lay on her shoulder, hugging her close. "My father received a raven, sister. From the Twins, after your Uncle Edmure's wedding."

When she swallowed her mouth turned ashen. "What of it, my lord?" she asked quietly. Her voice was barely above a whisper. She knew of her Uncle Edmure's wedding to that of a Frey girl. Robb had written her as much. She had wondered, at the time, why their Uncle would wed a Frey girl before Robb did himself.

"Your brother went, with your mother and a host of his men... The Freys, offended by your brother wedding a Westerling girl and not one of their own-" So Robb wed a Westerling, and broke his promise to Lord Frey? That is why Uncle Edmure was sent to marry a Frey? She cursed her brother in her mind, knowing that if she were there she could have talked him out of it. Tyrion had not stopped talking and she tried hard to listen to his words. "-they were killed in the great hall."

"Killed? Who?"

Tyrion raised a brow. "You did not listen? I wish it could remain so..." he sighed, swallowing hard. "After the wedding, your mother and brother and the northmen with them were... they were murdered. In the great hall."

The words did not register to Lyla for long, and she sat there with an expression between bemused and furious. "Murdered?" the word made her tongue heavy, and she felt as though she were falling through an endless portal, slipping from reality. It were the same word her mother used when she had told her of her father's fate.

She was just with Robb, and with her mother. "What of Sansa?" she asked quickly. "What of Arya? Where are my sisters!" she rose and held Joanna tight, too tight. The babe began to wail and she rocked her to quiet her, absentminded. "Where is my Uncle Edmure? My Great Uncle Blackfish? What of them?"

"The other Stark girls have not been found, nor the Blackfish. Your Uncle Edmure is currently a captive of the Freys." His voice was a million miles away.

Dead. Dead... Dead? She could still see Robb and her mother in Riverrun. She could feel their warm arms and see their smiles. She was just with them, only weeks ago.. or months now, she had lost track of the time here in King's Landing. She looked down at Joanna and recalled Robb holding her, and her mother holding her.

The tears came then, and the world dropped as her knees buckled underneath her. How much must I lose, in this game of thones? This sick, twisted game... She wanted to be home in Winterfell, jesting with Robb and Theon- Theon!

"What of Theon Greyjoy?" she begged of Tyrion, barely making out his form as he helped her up to her feet. He took Joanna in his arms, and Lyla wrapped hers around herself, sobbing. "What of.. what of the wolves?"

"My lady, perhaps you would not like to hear the details..." he murmured, but she shook her head.

"I must know, Lord Tyrion," she pleaded.

His mouth was hardpressed in a firm line. "They chopped off the head of your brother's wolf and sewed it to his body. And yours... They could not find her. Lady Sansa's wolf was flayed and hoisted as a banner, and Lady Arya's wolf escaped. Theon Greyjoy was captured."

Lyla's weeping renewed itself, and she wished she could throw herself from the window of the tallest room in the Tower of the Hand. My family is dead and scattered and here I am, helplessly waiting for my turn to be betrayed a murdered.

She took her daughter from Tyrion's arms and held her close. She was her reason for living. Her whole world. The babe, sensing Lyla's unease, wept too, little tears as soft and glittery as moonstone dripping from her eyes. She would never know her grandfather, or grandmother. She would never know her Uncle Robb. Lyla's heart lurched and she clutched the baby close, wiping her tears.

"I want to go to my chambers," she said.

Tyrion didn't stop her. "I'm so sorry, my lady," he whispered, frowning. "I am, truly." She knew he meant it, but his condolences did little for her, so she made for her chambers. When the guards stopped at her door, she turned to the one who had smiled so disgustingly and smacked him so hard across the face that he twisted and her palm stung red.

She locked the door and bolted it before he could even try and react and she slumped onto her bed after she put Joanna in her crib, sobbing. The sounds of the other three guards prying the one to his feet and pulling him away were lost on her, and she looked out her window, numb and raw and weeping still. It was a pain she'd not felt since the news of Eddard Stark's death. It was beyond hurt and longing and missing her family. It pulled at the core of her being, ripping through her heart and leaving her a shell of herself. Her person retracted further and further into her mind, and for a moment she thought of falling through the window.

Joanna cried, and Lyla wept harder. She wanted to die! She wanted this pain to be over with, but Joanna... She must live fore Joanna.

She went to her daughter and picked her up again, holding her until she fell asleep in her arms. Lyla longed to sleep as well, but it did not come. Not for days, and she was a hollow, void creature when she woke, hungry for vengeance and the blood of the Freys.

xxx

Lyla wore a gown of black samite to the wedding feast of King Joffrey and his new queen, Queen Margaery. It was as dark as the purple bags under her eyes, her skin pale and colorless otherwise. The gown was scalloped with spun silver and lace from Myr was sewn on the skirt, bodice edge, and the ends of her dagged sleeves, so long that it nearly dragged along on the floor. Her hair, long and brushed through until it fell in neat curls around her waist, was pulled back with a black string of velvet. Joanna was dress similarly, her golden curls bound up with a black velvet bow. The only real difference betwixt them was that Lyla wore a necklace given to her by a mystery knight in the greens and golds of House Tyrell. It was a lovely thing, with amethysts hung delicately on a silver string.

She held Joanna close as she walked through the yard. Lords and ladies alike noted her mourning gown, and some tutted their tongues while others eyed her sorrowfully. Lord Tyrion frowned when he caught sight of her. "The king will not like you in black on his wedding day," he told her, but she did not care for what Joffrey Baratheon thought. She did not care what anyone thought.

She walked with her goodbrother for a while, when a familiar face caught her eye. It was Lancel Lannister. He looks ghastly, she observed, eyeing him. His hair was white as summer snow, brittle, and he was thin as a stick. Without his father beside him holding him up, he would surely have collapsed. They did not approach, for Lancel whispered something to Ser Kevan, and they soon turned another way. She wished he'd died in the Battle of Blackwater. She wanted him dead.

Lady Olenna totted up to them in a cloth-of-gold gown that must have weighed more than she did. "You do look quite exquisite, child," she told Lyla. "The wind as been at your hair, though." The little old woman tucked some loose tendrils behind her ear, and then her hand fell to the necklace about her neck. She touched it gingerly. "I was very sorry to hear about your losses," she said as she fiddled with the stones that dangled ever so gently on the thin silver chain. "Your brother was a terrible traitor, I know, but if we start killing men at weddings they'll be even more frightened of marriage than they are presently. There, that's better." Lady Olenna smiled. "I am pleased to say I shall be leaving for Highgarden the day after next. I have had quite enough of this smell city, thank you. Perhaps you'd like to accompany me for a little visit, whilst the men are off having their war? I shall miss my Margaery to dreadfully, and all her lovely ladies. Your company would be such a sweet solace.

"You are too kind my lady," said Lyla, "but my place will be at Casterly Rock, where I will await my husband."

Lady Olenna frowned, then, and nodded. "Well, off with you child, and try to be merrier. Now where have my guardsmen gone? Left, right, where are you? Come help me to the dais."

Although evenfall was still an hour away, the throne room was already ablaze of light, with torches burning in every sconce. The guests stood along the tables as heralds called out the names and titles of the lords and ladies making their entrance. Pages in the royal livery escorted them down the broad central isle. The gallery above was packed with musicians; drummers and pipers and fiddlers, strings and horns and skins.

Tyrion clutched Lyla's arm and together they made the walk, he with a heavy, waddling stride, she slowly and hesitantly. She could feel eyes on her, on her daughter, on their black mourning wear. Let them look, she thought as she seated herself. Let them stare and whisper until they've had their fill.

The Queen of Thorns followed them in, shuffling along with tiny little steps. Lyla wondered which of them looked more absurd, she beside Tyrion, or the wizened old woman between her seven-foot-tall twin guardsmen.

Joffrey and Margaery rode into the throne room on matched white chargers. PAges ran before them, scattering rose petals under their hooves. The king and queen had changed for the feast. Joffrey wore striped black-and-crimson breeches and a cloth-of-gold doublet with black satin sleeves and onyx studs. Margaery had exchanged the demure gown she had worn in the sept for one much more revealing, a confection in pale green samite with a tight-laced bodice that bared her shoulders and the tops of her small breasts. Unbound, her soft brown hair tumbled over her white shoulders and down her back almost to her waist. Around her brows was a slim golden crown. Her smile was shy and sweet. She was lovely, and a kinder fate than Joffrey deserved.

The Kingsguard escorted them onto the dais, to the seats of honor beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne, draped for the occasion in long silk streamers of Baratheon gold, Lannister crimson, and Tyrell green. Lyla watched as Cersei embraced Margaery and kissed her cheeks. Lord Tywin did the same, and then Lancel and Ser Kevan. Joffrey received loving kisses from the bride's father and his two new brothers, Loras and Garlan. Lyla was given embraces from the Tyrells as well. Loras kissed Joanna's brow, and Garlan ticked her to make her smile. Her poor babe had been just as dreary as she.

When the king and queen had taken their seats, the High Septon rose to lead a prayer.

She and Tyrion had been seated to the king's far right, beside Ser Garlan and his darling little wife, Lady Leonette. A dozen others sat closer to Joffrey, which many might have taken as a slight. Lyla would have been glad if there had been a hundred between them.

After much merriment in the hall, and gifts being given, Joffrey rose in the hall. "Everyone silence!" he cried. "Clear the floor! There's been too much amusement here today. A royal wedding is not an amusement, a royal wedding is history. The time has come for all of us to contemplate our history. My lords, my ladies, I give you King Joffrey! Renly! Stannis! Robb Stark! Baelon Greyjoy! The war of the five kings!"

Lyla looked up from Joanna immediately as a set of dwarves entered the hall, all dressed as their counterparts. Atop the head of the Robb Stark impersonator was a wolf mask, and she thought of how they'd sewn Grey Wind's head to her brother's body. "King in the North!" the little man cried. They all galloped around on small ponies and shouted their own king's name. "King Renly!" the little Renly called, "Stannis, Stannis!" the little Stannis cried.

"Let the war begin!" shouted the one dressed as Joffrey.

The one dressed as Stannis began to beat on the one that was Renly, calling him a degenerate and pounding on him until he fell off into the crowd. The one dress as her brother charged the Kraken king and whacked at him with a wooden sword. "Challenge me, Kraken!" he howled, "I'm the King in the North!"

Lyla felt her eyes mist and she held Joanna tight to her, pursing her lips. What was this?

The little Joffrey shot a false arrow at the little Stannis. "No, not wildfire!" the dwarf cried, faking sobs. He ran off towards the end of the hall. The little Joffrey began tilting with the little Robb, "Again!" he cried when they missed each other.

"I'm the King in the North!" the little Robb declared. Garlan's hand covered hers, and Lyla felt like she would wretch. "Charge!" the dwarfs shouted, and ran at each other again. This time, the little Joffrey popped the wolf mask off of the little Robb, and he fell on his side, off the pony. The dwarf that played as Joffrey hopped from his tiny steed and fucked the wolf's head, laughing.

She felt sick, and gripped Garlan's hand tight.

The king laughed so hard that he spit out his wine, and Lyla found Margaery's eyes. They were anything but laughing."Here you are," Joffrey said, rising. "A champion's purse. Though, you're not the champion yet, are you? A true champion defeats all of the challengers. Surely there are others there who still challenge my reign." His eyes found Tyrions, and he glanced at me for a moment, a malicious smile on his lips. "Uncle, how about you? I'm sure they have a spare costume."

The court laughed, and Tyrion rose. "One taste of combat was enough for me, your grace," he said, "I would like to keep what remains of my face. I think you should fight him. This was but a poor imitation of your own bravery in battle. I speak as a first hand witness. Climb down from the table with your new valyrion sword and show everyone how a king win's his throne!"

The crowd laugh again, and Lyla eyed the sword. It was forged with her House's ancestral sword, Ice. He'd called it Widow's Wail.

"Be careful though," Tyrion continued. He pointed his head towards the dwarf that had fucked the wolf mask. "This one is clearly mad with lust. It would be a shame for the king to lose his virtue, just hours before his wedding night."

He sat again, as the court erupted with laughter once more. The king looked lost for words, furious, and grabbed his golden goblet, making his way towards them. Lyla held Joanna close. Slowly, Joffrey poured his full cup of wine over Tyrion's head. Bit splashed onto her gown, dotting it.

"A fine vintage," Tyrion said. "A shame that it... spilled."

"It did not spill," Joffrey replied, angry.

Margaery reached for him just in time, smiling beautifully. "My love, come back to me. It's time for my father's toast."

The dwarves scattered and Joffrey raised a brow. "How does he expect me to toast without wine?" He looked back to Tyrion. "Uncle, you can be my cup bearer, seeing as your too cowardly to fight."

"Your grace does me a great honor," Tyrion said.

Joffrey frowned. "It's not meant as an honor."

Tyrion rose slowly, and we exchanged a look before he went to Joffrey's side. He reached for the goblet, but the king dropped it before he could grab Tyrion went to pick it up, Joffrey kicked it under the table. "Bring me my goblet," he ordered.

Lyla was nearer to it, so she leaned down and grabbed it, handing it to him.

Tyrion offered the goblet back to Joffrey, but he shook his head. "What good is an empty cup? Fill it." Tyrion did as he was told, and offered it again. "Kneel," Joffrey commanded, "Kneel before your king." Tyrion did nothing, and the king's ire rose. "Kneel," he repeated. Again, Tyrion did not comply. "I said KNEEL!"

Suddenly Margaery jumped up and smiled gracefully. "Look," she said, "the pie!"

The crowd boomed with clapping and excited little cheers. Joffrey took the chalice and drank deep, than handed it to Margaery. She set it down, and he drew his sword. He whacked the top of the Pigeon Pie, and a dozen doves flew into the air. "Wonderful," Margaery exclaimed, "wonderful, my love!"

A piece was served immediately to the king and queen, and Lyla leaned into Tyrion's ear. "Can we leave now?" she asked. He nodded, and they rose, but Joffrey called for Tyrion once more.

"Uncle," he called, "where are you going? You're my cup bearer, remember?"

"I thought I might change out of these wet clothes, your grace."

"Oh, no, no, no. No, you're perfect the way you are." Joffrey forked another bite of the pie into his mouth. "Serve me my wine." Tyrion gave her a sorry look, then went to do as he was bid. "Well hurry up," Joffrey exasperated, "this pie is dry." He drank when Tyrion gave him the cup. "Mmm, good," he murmured. "Needed washing down."

"If it please your grace, Lady Joanna is very tired..." Joanna cried out just then, but Joffrey wouldn't have it.

"No. Koff Koff, you'll wait hear until, koff koff, I say, koff koff, it's nothing... koff koff." Joffrey turned to Margaery then and she stared in horror.

"He's choking!" she cried.

"Help the poor boy," Lady Olenne shouted, "Idiots, help your king!"

Cersei and Lord Tywin rushed to his aid, as did guards. Joffrey keeled over and wretched onto the floor of the throne room. Lyla cried out in wordless terror and Joann wailed. Tyrion grabbed the cup, inspecting it, and in that moment, in Joffrey's dying moment, he raised a hand and pointed at her dwarf goodbrother.

The king croaked and scratched at his throat until it tore under his fingernails, and then there was a knowing silence. Cersei cried over her son's body. "Noooooooooo," she sobbed, rocking him in her arms. She snapped her head to Tyrion and wit ha sneer she screamed, "You did this! He poisoned my son, your king! Take him, take him!"

Lyla watched in sheer horror as Tyrion was grabbed and dragged away. Garlan pulled her into his arms and Leonette covered Joanna's eyes and ears. A piece of her wanted to cry, having seen another king slain. But that part was so small and insignificant, she paid it no mind at all. Lyla smiled, and she felt as though a piece of her heart was redeemed. It was finally real. She hugged Joanna tight and thanked the gods.

Joffrey was dead.


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

It had been a long journey to Casterly Rock. Jaime rode with Brienne and Qyburn from Harrenhal. He'd heard of Joffrey's death. He should have been angry, pounding his fists bloody into a wall somewhere, but they were so close to Casterly Rock, so close to Lyla and Joanna. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her. He did not miss the news of Catelyn and Robb's death, and he could almost feel her agony when he heard word of the betrayal. Being with his wife was president over feeling any hint of remorse for his son's death. His firstborn.

They rode from dawn till it was nearly evenfall, and finally the castle was in view. It shone like a beacon, lit and glittering against the red-and-gold Sunset Sea. Jaime sighed and kicked into his horse. He and Lyla had been separated for too long.

Brienne and Qyburn followed as he raced towards the gates. Torches illuminated the grounds, and guards stopped them before they reached the Lion's Mouth. "Let me pass," Jaime protested, frustrated. He was so close, so close to home. To his wife, to his daughter.

"Who seeks entrance?" the guard asked, narrowing his eyes on Jaime and the company that rode with him.

"Jaime Lannister," he stated. "They are all with me. I wish to come home."

The guard stammered for a moment. "Ser Jaime? Is that truly you? I am so sorry, of course you may pass." The man ordered for the gates to open, and Jaime rode through without so much as another word to the man. He wanted to run to Lyla, to kiss her and touch her and feel her skin against his.

He dismounted once he reached the courtyard, falling because he vaulted too far and could not gather himself with his stump. He recovered quickly, though, and did just as he wanted. He ran.

His feet carried him as fast as wind, and he sprinted through the halls. "Where is the Lady Lannister?" he asked of a maid, who told him she was on the fourth floor. He thanked her and ran up the stairs without so much as feeling winded, though his thin, unexercised body would feel this later, and be sore.

He reached the fourth floor quickly, and stopped dead when he heard a familiar humming. It was soft and melodic and sad in a way. He followed it, thinking only of Lyla, only of her sweet lips and soft tongue. He peered into a large room with two double doors open. A young boy was there, laughing and rocking on a large wooden rocking horse, hoisting a rather fine wooden sword into the air.

It was Tommen.

The humming grew louder and Jaime felt tears in his eyes as he spotted her. Lyla had her back to him, swaying with little Joanna on her hips. The baby was fast asleep, curled in her mother's arms. The baby looked older than he remembered. She must have been a few months old now, her golden curls almost reaching her shoulders already. But he wasn't looking at Joanna, not truly.

She wore a gown of crimson silk that pooled like blood around her. A cloak of black-and-gold furs billowed behind her, and a cascade of rich brown curls dropped to her waist. She turned and faced Tommen, smiling warmly. She looked as beautiful as he remembered, so lovely and fair and Jaime couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Lyla," he breathed, and he wasn't sure if she'd heard him- but then she turned as swift as wind and a hand flew to her mouth.

"Jaime!" she cried, so loud that Joanna woke, rubbing her eyes. They were one green and one blue, so beautiful...

He did not see Lyla hand Joanna to the maid, but before he knew it she was around his neck and he could feel her, finally after all these months. She smelled of sweet rosewater and her skin was as soft and supple as a cloud. Her curls covered his face and he burrowed his face in them, holding her tight, so tight. She was real and warm and in his arms. "Lyla," he whispered, kissing her hair. A tear fell down his cheek and he didn't care. He had his wife.

"I love you," she sobbed, her lips trailing up and down his neck. "I love you so much. I never want to be parted from you again, Jaime, I love you, I love you, I love you..." She didn't say a thing about his thin stature, or remark on his overgrown hair and dirty skin or his beard, as her lips pressed against his. It started sweet and slow and then it became all of need.

The maid ushered Tommen and little Joanna out of the room and Jaime slammed the doors to the chamber shut when they left. He pushed them onto the floor and pressed into her as soon as he'd gotten her skirts up. She cried out in pain and pleasure and he thrusted into her hard and fast, needy and quick and gods he'd never felt anything sweeter than being inside of her, inside of his wife.

"Jaime, Jaime, Jaime," she breathed into his hair, holding him close. "You're home now, you're safe. You're with me and we're always going to be together, I promise darling. I love you."

He came then, and claimed her lips at the same moment. She was crying, he realized when he pulled away from her face. "No, sweet girl," he murmured. "No tears, you're okay. I'm here with you now, we're together, love."

She nodded into his hand, and his thumb wiped away the tears. They did not stop running down her face, and Jaime found he was crying as well. "Oh Ly," he sobbed, never pulling out of her.

They lay there, broken and weeping and holding each other with all the strength they had.

"My family is dead," she whispered to him after a time. They had cleaned up and Jaime had shaved, and now rested by the lit hearth. The wood cracked and flakes of fire drifted into the air. "They are gone, Jaime. I felt so alone, and you were gone so long..."

Jaime held her tighter, kissing her lips. "I know, my love. I know, but I am here now. And Joanna is healthy and strong. And I see Tommen is here as well."

"Lord Tywin let me take him. He doesn't want Cersei to corrupt him as she did Joffrey." Her words were little more than a wisp in the wind. He knew it to be true. Cersei would turn him into Joffrey reincarnate had she the chance. It would be better if Tywin ran Westeros until Tommen was of an age.

Jaime rolled onto one side and sighed, pulling his stump on Lyla's chest. She held it tenderly. "They took my hand," he told her. He knew she must have noticed, and her thumb grazed it absentmindedly, her eyes on the fire before them.

"I know," she said quietly. "I felt it, when we were on the floor." She looked at him then, blue eyes wide. He missed those eyes. "I don't think any less of you without it, Jaime. You are more than a sword hand, more than a knight. You are a husband, and a father, and the greatest man I've ever known."

He felt like sobbing again. How perfect this little wife of his was. She didn't even care about his missing hand, she just wanted him. He got up and helped her to her feet, and began pulling at the laces of her gown. It was hard to do with one hand, and took twice as long as usual, but eventually he was able to pry the dress from her body and then her cloak and small clothes. The room was warm enough, and she laid on the bed uncovered, allowing him to drink up her naked form.

She was as beautiful as when they first were married. Her body was young and thin and the little silver marks of her pregnancy with the twins glinted ever so beautifully in the firelight. He liked her marks, they made her who she was, they were of Joanna's birth, and Eddard's.

He wished he were more like the man that married her, but the body that covered her was weaker, thinner, paler. It was without a sword hand and covered in fresh scars. But if Lyla noticed any of these things, she did not show it.

Lyla wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled that warm, sweet smile of hers before claiming his lips with her own. The dim, candlelight made her skin glow and her eyes sparkle, he noted, when she pulled away for a breath. "Sweet girl," he whispered to her, caressing her hair with his stump and holding himself up with his good hand, "Darling girl."

"My love," she murmured back softly. She leaned in once more and kissed him, slow and long and deep. He's missed the sweet taste of her tongue and how gently it danced with his own. He missed her touches and her voice and the sweet words she said. I am home, he thought happily, I am finally home, in Lyla's arms.

He entered her slowly, gently, and then, when the need struck him, all at once. She gasped, then smiled. "I was not whole without you," she moaned as he thrusted hard and fast into her. He knew exactly what she meant. They were like two halves of the same heart. He'd felt empty without her.

Jaime held on for as long as he could, but finally his release came, just when Lyla's did, and they were panting hard when it was over. He slumped beside her and pulled her on top of him, never pulling out of her.

It was not long before Lyla began to snore softly above him, and so he slid her onto the bed and tucked her into the covers. He sat, staring at her for a long time. He did not know how long, but when he looked out the window there were stars in the sky.

Jaime pressed a kiss to Lyla's forehead, then dressed in simple clothes and took to walking the halls. They were void of life, and his boots echoed against the walls. He hadn't been home in a very long time, but he still remembered every room, every twist and turn. Some of it was off, like how his and Lyla's chamber was twice the size as the old room had been before, the wall between it and the next room having been broken so it might be larger. Tyrion's old room was closed off and at the end of the hall. When he entered, he realized how small it was. Was it always like that?

A maid turned the corner and Jaime followed her around the way and up a small staircase that led to a wide, open loft. There was a small child's bed and a bassinet of gold with ruby velvet wrapped on the legs and a curtain of soft crimson silk draped about it. The maid looked up and gasped loudly, covering her heart with her hand. "My lord," she breathed, "Forgive me, I did not see you."

He waved a hand. "No worries. Is this where the children stay?"

"Yes, my lord. King Tommen is there, and Lady Joanna sleeps in the crib, here."

Jaime nodded and dismissed the maid, making towards his daughter's crib. She wasn't sleeping, and he pulled her out of the crib, holding her close. She was a beautiful little thing. He'd thought so from the moment he set eyes on her, the moment that Lyla birthed her. She was so frail compared to her brother, so weak. It was a wonder that little Eddard died of fever and not Joanna.

Joanna looked up at him, smiling her mother's smile. She looked rather a great deal like Lyla, but for the color of her hair, and her strange, beautiful eyes. His handless stump smoothed over her smock and she grabbed it, suckling on the base of it. This was what he lived for. To be her father, to be Lyla's husband. He only wanted to be here, at Casterly Rock, with his girls, not be pushed and pulled in the game of thrones.

This was what he wanted out of life. This was what he was meant to be.

Lord of Casterly Rock.

Lyla came up the staircase after about an hour. She donned a nightgown and robe, and rubbed her eyes as she crossed the distance between them. Joanna cried for her mama, and Lyla picked her up, holding her to her body as though she were a seasoned mother. "She needs to be in bed," Lyla tutted, smirking.

"I couldn't help it. I missed her when I was away," Jaime replied, watching his wife rock the sweet little baby to sleep, "She's so big now."

Lyla nodded. "We've been apart for long, Jaime," she said quietly, hushing when Tommen stirred in his bed. She looked down at Joanna, then walked to the crib and placed her in bed. "She's asleep, come, let's to bed before they wake or we'll never get any rest."

He followed Lyla out, holding her hand as they went.

He woke slowly, fluttering his eyelids. It was warm and sunlight draped over him like a warm blanket. Languidly, Jaime rose, stretching. He looked around when he noticed Lyla was not in bed, then smiled warmly when he saw her sitting, dressed and cleaned, on the edge of the featherbed.

"Good morning, wife," he murmured, sitting up.

Lyla smiled. "Good morning. I have a surprise for you, Jaime."

He watched curiously as she pulled a box from behind her. It was wooden and stained dark crimson. The handle was gilded gold and there were golden lions painted on the top. "What is it?" he asked, but she gave way to nothing, only pushed the box towards him. He grabbed it with his good hand and lifted the lid.

Within the box, lined in crimson velvet, was a golden hand with a leather base. It was heavy and patterned with pretty designs and scalloping on the bottom. "A hand," she said, "to replace the one you lost. It's not perfect, but I think you'll learn to like it."

A part of him wanted to throw the hand into the Sunset Sea. He didn't want a golden hand, he wanted is own hand. He laughed dryly at the irony. He could recall wanting a golden hand to rip out Vargo Hoat's heart. But then he looked up and saw the regret in Lyla's eyes. She pulled the box back and frowned, looking down at it. "I suppose it's a tad distasteful," she murmured, shutting it.

"No," he said quickly, grabbing for the box with his good hand. "It's perfect."

She gave him the box and he pulled the hand out, strapping it onto his stump. It was very heavy indeed and weighed his arm down. Lyla grabbed his hand, the golden one, and sighed. "So much has changed since Winterfell," she murmured. "But you know what won't change, darling?"

He raised a brow. "What?"

"Our love. We'll always be together, Jaime. I'm yours, and you're mine."

Jaime pressed his golden hand to her cheek and nodded. "Always, wife."

They spent the day with the children, their children, and for a moment, however small, the war and its hardships slipped away. They were a family, strong and fierce and Jaime was certain that thy could make it through, no matter what happened.

He looked at his wife and his heart flushed. She was a wolf and he was her lion, and together they could conquer anything.

Meanwhile, somewhere across the Narrow Sea a child queen began plotting her return to Westeros...


End file.
